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The  Valley   Path 


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The  Valley    Path 


By 

Will  Allen  Dromgoole 

Author  of  "  The  Heart  of  Old 

Hickory,"  "  The  Farrier's 

Dog  and  His  Fellow," 

etc. 


Boston 
Estes  and  Lauriat 

MDCCCXCVIII 

im 


COPYRIGHT,  1895  AND  l896» 
BY  THE  ARENA  PUBLISHING  Co. 


COPYRIGHT,  1898, 
BY  ESTES  AND  LAURIAT. 


FIRST   EDITION    PRINTED   MARCH    IOTH. 
SECOND   EDITION    PRINTED   MARCH   2  3RD. 


Colonial 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


To  the  two 

who  gave  me  life,  and 

made  it  worth  the  living  :  my  father, 

Jofjn  iSaster  ©romgoolc, 

who  was  my  guide  and  counsellor,   my  friend, 

my  comrade,  and   my  critic,   until    God   took   him ; 

and  my  mother, 

Rebecca  fftttoret)  Blancfj, 

whose  faith  and  love  have  been  my  inspiration, 

and  who  lingers  in  my  life,   a  sweet   and 

gentle  presence,  for  ever.      Both  of 

whom,   by  God's  good  grace, 

I  humbly  hope  to 

meet  again. 


2061733 


THE  love  which  desolated  life,  yet  made 

So  dear  its  desolation  ;  and  the  creeds 

Which,  one  by  one,  snapped  in  my  hold  like  reeds, 

Beneath  the  weight  of  need  upon  them  laid. 

Alas  !   'tis  not  the  creed  that  saves  the  man  ; 
It  is  the  man  that  justifies  the  creed  ; 
And  each  must  save  his  own  soul  as  he  can, 
Since  each  is  burthened  with  a  different  need. 

The   Wanderer:  ROBERT,  LORD  LYTTON. 


The  Valley  Path 


THIS  clay  well  mixed  with  marl  and  sand, 
Follows  the  motion  of  my  hand : 
For  some  must  follow  and  some  command, 
Though  all  are  made  of  clay. 

—  "  Ke'ramos." 

Chapter  I 

AT  the  foot  of  the  crags  stood  the  doc- 
tor's cabin,  a  gray  bird  in  a  nest  of 
green.  Above  it,  the  white  mists  ascend- 
ing and  descending  about  the  heights  of 
Sewanee;  below,  a  brown  thread  in  winter, 
in  summer  a  strip  of  gay  green,  the  pleas- 
ant valley  of  the  Elk ;  through  the  valley 
—  now  lisping  along  its  low  banks,  now 
cutting  its  course,  a  mountain  torrent, 
through  a  jungle  of  cedar  and  ivy  and 


12  The  Valley  Path 

laurel,  the  everlasting  greens  —  the  Elk 
itself,  gurgling  gaily  down  to  meet  the 
Tennessee ;  and  through  the  valley,  in 
and  out  among  the  greens,  climbing  the 
mountain  farther  back,  the  old  brown 
footpath  that  used  to  pass  the  doctor's 
door.  Making  a  turn  or  two,  it  also 
passed  the  door  of  the  next  house,  a 
little  white-washed  cabin,  set  back  in  a 
clearing  which  Alicia  Reams,  the  miller's 
granddaughter,  used  to  call  her  "  truck- 
patch."  Singing  among  her  pea-rows, 
summer  days,  her  voice  would  come  down 
to  the  doctor  under  his  own  vine  and  fig- 
tree,  mixing  and  mingling  strangely  with 
his  fancies. 

The  click-clack  of  the  mill  on  Pelham 
Creek  might  be  heard,  too,  as  far  as  the 
doctor's,  such  days  when  toll  was  plenty 
and  the  wind  not  contrary. 

It  was  only  a  step  from  the  doctor's 
house  to  Alicia's,  by  way  of  the  brown 
footpath,  and  he  was  a  frequent  visitor  at 
the  miller's.  Yet  were  their  lives  far 


The  Valley  Path  13 

enough  apart,  for  all  the  connecting  path. 
For  Jonathan  Reams  was  a  dusty  old 
fellow  in  jeans,  a  homespun  that  was  con- 
sidered only  the  better  for  being  un- 
bleached. Of  a  pattern  was  the  miller 
with  his  wife,  familiarly  known,  as  moun- 
tain mothers  are,  as  "  granny."  Of  a 
pattern  the  two  so  far  as  appearances 
went ;  no  further ;  for  granny  was  queru- 
lous and  "fixed  in  her  ways  some."  Any 
hour  of  the  day,  when  she  was  not  dozing 
over  her  pipe,  either  upon  the  hearth  or 
under  Alicia's  honeysuckle  vines,  her  voice 
might  be  heard  scolding  the  miller,  calling 
to  Alicia  to  "  shoo  the  chickens  out  of  the 
gyarden,"  singing  the  praises  of  the  herb- 
doctor  or  the  psalms  of  the  Methodists, 
as  her  mood  might  move  her.  Alicia's 
mother,  however,  had  "  been  a  school- 
ma'am  once,  befo'  she  died,"  and  had 
taught  her  children,  Al  and  "  Lissy," 
something  of  books.  She  had  been  a 
dreamer,  evidently,  who  had  mistaken 
brawn  for  manhood,  and  so  married  Jed 


I4  The  Valley  Path 

Reams,  the  miller's  son.  The  mother 
died,  for  grief  of  her  mistake ;  the  father, 
like  other  miller's  sons,  from  natural  causes. 
The  boy  Al  inherited  the  mother's  frail 
physique ;  to  the  girl  fell  her  qualities  of 
soul.  Humble  folks  enough  were  they. 

There  was   a   silver  doorplate  on  the 
doctor's  door : 

BARTHOLOMEW    BORING,    M.  D. 

Within,  there  were  books,  carpets,  and 
servants :  those  marks  of  culture,  and, 
they  said,  of  the  "  eccentric."  Such  they 
were  pleased  to  call  him,  those  who  had 
known  him,  before  the  valley  knew  him, 
for  a  friend.  He  might  have  walked  the 
heights ;  that  he  found  the  valley  paths 
more  to  his  taste,  the  years  in  which  he 
trod  their  humble  ways  bore  evidence. 
That  he  had  been  ignorant  of  those  un- 
pretentious ways  the  first  days  of  his  com- 
ing, the  silver  plate  bore  evidence.  When 
he  did  fall  into  line  with  all  about  him,  the 
silver  plate  furnished  so  much  of  wonder 


The  Valley  Path  15 

and  amusement  that  he  let  it  be.     And 
there  it  is  to  this  good  day : 

BARTHOLOMEW    BORING,    M.  D. 

They  had  come  for  miles  to  look  at  it ; 
come  horseback  and  afoot,  singly  and  in 
squads.  They  had  wondered  if  M.  D. 
might  not  be  a  warning,  like  "hands  off," 
or  "look  out  for  pickpockets,"  or  "don't 
tramp  on  the  grass,"  until  at  last  a  shrewd 
young  giant  from  across  the  mountain 
made  out  to  read  the  riddle: 

" It  stands  for  mad"  he  declared.  "'Bar- 
tholomew Borin',  Mad  Doctor.'  That's 
what  the  sign  says." 

From  that  time  he  was  placed,  labelled 
like  a  vial  of  his  own  strychnine  ;  the  mad 
doctor. 

He  chuckled,  enjoying  the  joke  as 
keenly  as  its  perpetrators.  He  even  swore 
they  were  right:  "Else  why  should  a  'man 
forsake  houses,  and  brethren,  or  wife'"  — 
arid  there  he  stopped,  as  he  always  did,  to 
sigh.  Wife ;  that  was  the  pivot  upon 


1 6  The  Valley  Path 

which  his  fate  had  turned ;  swung  from 
sun  to  shade,  to  rest  at  last  under  the 
stiller  shadows  of  the  wilderness. 

The  footpath  way  became  familiar  with 
his  tread,  and  with  his  thoughts, 

"  If  things  inanimate  catch  heart-beats." 

He  was  fond  of  its  varied  windings  among 
the  dusky  glooms,  and  sunnier  ways. 
The  brown  trail  had  been  first  opened  by 
the  cattle  that  went  up  daily  to  graze  upon 
the  long,  lush  plateau  grasses,  stopping 
by  the  way  to  touch  their  nozzles  to  the 
cooling  waters  of  the  Elk.  Later,  the 
opening  in  the  brake  became  a  footpath 
for  the  people  on  the  mountain's  side  who 
came  down  Sabbath  mornings  to  worship 
in  the  valley  "meet'n-house"  at  Goshen, 
near  unto  Pelham  Creek. 

"Because,"  they  said,  "the  Episcopers 
had  tuk  the  mount'n  bodaciously,  callin' 
of  it  S'wany."  And  "  Furthermore,"  they 
said,  "Episcoper  an'  mount'neer  won't 
mix  worth  mentionin'." 


The  Valley  Path  17 

And  so  the  mountain  monarch  had  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  his  red  brother  and 
"moved  on,"  leaving  the  plateau  to  the 
"  Episcopers,"  who  planted  their'  flag, 
erected  their  homes,  and  worshipped  their 
God  under  the  beautiful  groves  of  Sewa- 
nee.  But  to  this  good  day,  "  Episcoper  " 
and  mountaineer  refuse  to  mix,  "worth 
mentionin'." 

The  doctor  "mixed"  with  them  as  little 
as  his  rustic  neighbours. 

"They're  out  of  my  beat,"  he  would  de- 
clare, pointing  along  the  footpath.  "Too 
high,"  pointing  up  the  mountain,  "too 
church.  I  like  this  better." 

He  seldom  followed  the  path  further 
than  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  unless  he 
had  a  patient  up  there,  as  was  sometimes 
the  case,  among  the  very  poor,  the  natives, 
living  along  the  steep.  He  would  walk 
to  the  spot  where  the  path  made  a  turn  at 
Alicia's  truck-patch,  and  stand  leaning 
over  the  palings  of  Alicia's  fence,  talking 
with  grandad  Reams,  the  miller,  about 


1 8  The  Valley  Path 

heaven,  perhaps,  until  dismissed  by  granny 
from  the  doorstep,  as  "a  doggone  infidel." 

Sometimes  it  was  with  Alicia  that  he 
talked ;  about  the  chickens,  the  eggs  he 
wanted  her  to  fetch  over,  or  to  ask  if  little 
Al  was  ailing.  Sometimes  he  only  walked 
there  to  look  up  at  the  heights,  and  at 
Sewanee,  and  to  wonder  concerning  its 
creeds  and  dogmas.  But  he  always  called 
over  the  fence  to  Alicia,  for  some  one 
thing  or  another. 

"Just  for  the  pure  pleasure  of  hearing 
her  laugh,"  he  told  himself;  "it  is  like  the 
gurgle  of  Elk  River  among  the  gray  rocks 
at  low-water  time."  He  remembered  the 
first  time  he  ever  walked  there  and  saw 
the  bright  head  among  the  corn  rows,  and 
heard  the  little  gurgling  laugh,  and  met 
the  honest  gray  eyes  with  their  untroubled 
deeps,  and  felt  the  force  of  her  beautiful 
character,  abloom  like  the  sturdy  moun- 
tain-laurel among  the  secluded  ways  of  the 
wilderness.  He  remembered  her  hands, 
and  the  first  strong  clasp  of  her  fingers, 


The  Valley  Path  19 

and  the  gentleness  of  their  touch  the  first 
time  he  ever  met  her,  in  a  cabin  by  the 
Pelham  Road,  with  a  dead  babe  lying 
across  her  knees,  and  those  strong,  gentle 
fingers  feeling  for  its  heart,  that  had  flut- 
tered like  a  wounded  bird's  and  then — 
stopped.  She  had  looked  like  a  Ma- 
donna, with  her  motherly  arms  and  sweet 
girl-face.  In  his  fancy  he  had  called  her 
"  the  Madonna,"  that  first  time  he  saw 
her.  And  he  had  wondered  then — but  if 
he  is  going  back  to  that  "first  time"  when, 
yielding  to  a  whim,  or  an  inspiration,  he 
had  bidden  the  old  walks  farewell,  sent 
his  servants  on  to  prepare  a  place  where 
he  might  set  his  foot  down  free  of  creeds 
and  memories  and  heartaches ;  and  had 
sought  the  cabin  in  the  wilds,  cast  his  lot 
among  the  humble  dwellers  there,  and  had 
stumbled  upon  other  creeds  and  memories 
and  heartaches,  why,  we  will  turn  the 
page  and  go  with  him,  back  to  that  first 
time  when,  among  the  Tennesseean  vales, 
in  a  cabin  in  the  wilderness,  he  encoun- 


20  The  Valley  Path 

tered  Alicia,  the  miller's  granddaughter, — 
his  Madonna. 

Women  know  their  fate  the  moment 
they  know  anything;  with  a  change  in  the 
pattern  of  a  dress  their  destinies  are  fairly 
one;  with,  perchance,  this  slight  variety, — 
wife,  spinster.  But  men  stumble  upon  a 
strange  destiny  as  they  stumble  upon  one 
another ;  along  the  crowded  walk,  in  the 
glare  and  glow  of  gaslight,  in  the  ballroom, 
in  the  quiet  woodland  ways ;  after  their 
rose-dreams  have  ended,  it  may  be,  along 
with  youth  and  youthful  fancies.  Yet  are 
the  colours  of  the  afterglow  warmer,  less 
blinding,  than  the  sun's  rays  at  meridian. 


Chapter  II 

THE  workmen  had  gone  back  to  the 
city,  and  the  house  had  been  in  all 
readiness  for  more  than  a  week,  when  a 
trap  set  the  doctor,  and  his  terrier  Zip, 
down  at  the  gate  of  that  which  he  was 
pleased  to  term  his  "mountain  home." 

Aunt  Dike  had  scrubbed  and  rubbed 
and  made  things  "homeful"  within  doors, 
while  her  son  Ephraim  had  performed  a 
like  service  in  stable  and  yard.  Both  ser- 
vants, however,  felt  that  it  was  so  much 
good  labour  gone  for  naught :  so  much 
care  put  upon  a  cabin  that  was  only  a  cabin 
when  all  was  said  and  done.  The  only 
redeemable  feature  about  the  business  was 
that  it  was  all  for  the  master,  and  was  one 
of  his  whims,  of  which,  they  doubted  not, 
he  would  soon  tire. 

True,  there  was  the  silver  doorplate  :  to 


22  The  Valley  Path 

be  sure,  that  covered  a  multitude  of  evils. 
Aunt  Dike  felt  an  honest  town  pride  in 
that  doorplate.  The  workmen  whom  the 
doctor  had  sent  up  to  attend  to  things, 
and  who  had  put  the  plate  in  place,  were 
scarcely  outside  the  gate  before  old  Dilce 
was  polishing  the  bit  of  silver  "fit  to  kill." 
She  kept  it  up  every  day  until  the  doctor 
arrived.  When  the  natives  began  to  ride 
by  and  peep  over  the  low  fence  at  the 
little  shining  square,  the  old  woman  only 
polished  the  more  vigorously.  When 
they  opened  the  gate,  and,  striding  up  the 
walk  to  the  door,  stood  spelling  out  "  the 
sign,"  her  pride  in  it  became  such  that  she 
would  certainly  have  rubbed  it  out  of 
countenance  but  for  the  doctor's  rush  to 
the  rescue. 

It  was  the  morning  after  his  arrival,  a 
morning  in  early  spring.  The  laurel  was 
in  bloom  along  the  river  bluffs,  and  a 
quince-tree  in  the  corner  of  the  yard  near 
the  fence  gave  promise  of  bursting  buds. 

The  doctor  rose  early, — "an  indication 


The  Valley  Path  23 

of  old  age,"  he  told  himself,  —  and  called 
for  his  coffee. 

"Throw  open  the  windows,"  he  said  to 
Ephraim,  "  then  hand  me  my  purple 
dressing-gown,  and  tell  your  mother  I 
want  my  coffee.  I  want  it  hot,  —  as  hot 
as—" 

"  Here  'tis,  marster ;  en  yo'  bre'kfus'  '11 
be  raidy  in  a  minute."  The  old  woman 
had  appeared  most  opportunely :  the  doc- 
tor was  about  to  let  slip  his  one  pet 
profanity. 

He  laughed  softly  as  he  slipped  into 
his  purple  robings  and  his  easy  chair,  and, 
leaning  his  big  gray  head  back  against  the 
velvet  rest,  he  prepared  to  enjoy  the  cof- 
fee, which  old  Dike  was  arranging  on  the 
stand  at  his  right  hand. 

There  was  a  click  of  the  little  gate 
latch  ;  the  "  big  gray  "  was  lifted ;  through 
the  open  window  came  the  fresh,  sweet 
river-breath,  and  the  far-away  odour  of 
new  mould  where  some  industrious  plow- 
man was  overturning  the  sod,  further  down 


24  The  Valley  Path 

the  valley.  And  through  the  window  the 
twinkling  blue  eyes  saw  a  long,  lank 
figure,  followed  by  another  and  another, 
amble  up  to  his  doorstep,  stop  a  moment, 
and  move  on,  making  room  for  the  next, 
like  a  procession  at  a  public  funeral  stop- 
ping to  look  at  the  corpse  in  state.  Full 
twenty  passed  in  at  the  gate  and  out  again. 
The  master  turned  to  Dike : 

"What  the  hell  are  they  doing?"  he 
demanded ;  and  then  came  old  Dike's 
turn  at  chuckling. 

"  Hit's  de  do'  fixin's,  marster,"  she  de- 
clared. "  Dem  do'  fixin's  am  too  fine  fur 
dese  parts ;  en  dey  ain'  showin'  ob  you  de 
proper  respec',  accordin'  ter  my  suppres- 
sion. Yistiddy  one  o'  de  stroppinist  ones 
ob  dem  all  nicknamed  ob  you  cde  Mad 
Doctor.'  He  say  dat  what  de  sign  mean; 
M.  D.  —  fDat  mean  Mad  Doctor,'  he 
say." 

The  gray  head  went  back  upon  the 
velvet  chair-rest,  and  a  laugh  echoed 
among  the  rafters  and  sills  and  beams  of 


The  Valley  Path  25 

the  gray  cabin,  such  as  they  had  not  heard 
since  rescued  from  the  owl,  the  bat,  and 
the  gopher,  to  make  room  for  the  medi- 
cine boxes  and  books  of  the  "mad  doc- 
tor." 

"  It  is  enough  to  made  them  think  me 
a  lunatic,"  he  told  himself,  as  all  day  the 
passers-by  stopped  to  wonder  at  the  reck- 
less waste  of  silver.  "  And  when  they 
discover  that  I  am  not  here  to  practise, 
but  merely  to  nurse  a  whim  and  a  dispo- 
sition to  cynicism  and  catarrh,  they  will 
think  me  madder  still, — rip,  ranting  mad. 
'The  other  side'  thought  the  same,  because 
I  refused  to  put  the  plate  on  a  door  in  the 
city.  Well,  well ;  we'll  see,  we'll  see. 
Maybe  there  will  be  no  call  for  declining 
to  practise,"  he  laughed,  softly,  "  among 
my  new  neighbours.  At  all  events,  I  need 
not  refuse  until  the  arrival  of  my  first 
patient." 

Sure  enough,  as  he  had  half  expected, 
they  set  him  in  the  balance  at  once. 
"Against  herbs  and  conjure  and  hornets," 


26  The  Valley  Path 

he  said,  whenever  he  told  the  joke,  as  he 
certainly  did  tell  it,  to  any  of  his  former 
friends  who  hunted  him  up  now  and  then 
by  a  visit  to  his  "shanty,"  or  sent  him  an 
invitation  to  meet  them  at  Sewanee,  the 
Episcopal  seat  of  learning. 

They  set  him  in  the  balance  the  very 
first  day  of  his  arrival.  He  was  strolling 
about  the  yard  among  the  flower  beds 
Ephraim  was  laying  off,  enjoying  his  mod- 
est possessions  in  his  own  cranky  old  way, 
bareheaded,  the  sun  making  a  sparkle  of 
his  wavy  hair  that  touched  the  purple  vel- 
vet collar  of  his  robe,  working  a  pleasant 
contrast  even  in  the  eyes  of  the  young 
giant  riding  along  the  footpath  towards 
the  gate. 

To  a  mind  more  familiar  with  the 
aesthetic  might  have  occurred  some  pretty 
imagery,  some  blend  of  colour,  gray  and 
purple,  like  the  mists  that  covered  the 
mountain-top.  But  the  visitor  was  a 
stranger  to  aesthetics.  He  saw  the  gray 
head  and  the  purple  gown,  the  kindly, 


The  Valley  Path  27 

old-young  face,  with  its  laughing  eyes  half 
hidden  under  the  bushy  brows.  If  he 
made  any  comparison,  nobody  knew  it. 
There  were  curiosity,  eagerness,  business, 
in  the  man's  whole  appearance ;  in  the 
very  trot  of  the  yellow  mule  upon  whose 
bare  back  he  sat  astride,  his  own  bare 
feet  almost  touching  the  ground  on  either 
side. 

At  the  visitor's  "  Halloo,"  the  doctor 
looked  up  from  the  mignonette  bed ; 
something  told  him  this  was  the  arrival  of 
his  first  patient.  The  two  regarded  each 
other  steadily.  What  the  doctor  saw  was 
a  slender-built  young  fellow,  with  clean, 
sharply  defined  features,  blue  eyes  that 
were  wells  of  mirth,  a  chin  which  meant 
defiance,  a  brow  browned  by  the  valley 
sun,  and,  pushed  back  with  careless,  un- 
conscious grace,  an  old  slouch  hat,  the 
inevitable  adornment  of  his  class.  A 
mass  of  soft,  clinging  curls  gave  a  girlish 
something  to  the  defiant  face.  The  full, 
beardless  lips  were  ready  to  break  into 


28  The  Valley  Path 

smiles,  despite  the  scowl  with  which  their 
owner  was  regarding  this  newcomer  to  the 
valley. 

In  this  newcomer  the  visitor  saw  a 
young-old  face ;  the  eyes  and  smile  of 
youth,  the  lines  and  snow  of  age  on 
brow  and  temple.  Beyond  the  physician 
the  mountaineer  saw  the  silver  doorplate 
and  its  flaunting  M.  D.,  and  seeing,  took 
courage. 

"Air  you  the  town  doctor?"  he  de- 
manded, flecking  a  cockle-bur  from  the 
yellow  mule's  comb  with  the  tip  of  a  wil- 
low withe,  which  served  him  as  a  riding- 
whip. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  am ;  and  a 
mighty  good  one  at  that." 

The  visitor  lifted  his  big,  bare  foot  and 
planted  it  upon  the  topmost  rail  of  the 
gray  worm  fence,  almost  under  the  very 
nose  of  the  ^Esculapius,  and,  pointing  with 
the  willow  switch  to  his  great  toe,  swollen 
and  red  and  distorted,  demanded : 

"  What  ails  hit?" 


The  Valley  Path  29 

The  professor  of  three  diplomas  put  on 
his  spectacles  :  the  toe  was  three  times  its 
ordinary  size ;  the  flesh  was  raw-looking 
and  ugly ;  he  touched  it  gingerly  with  his 
practised  fingers. 

"  A  bad  toe,"  he  declared,  in  his  slow, 
professional  voice.  Ephraim,  the  bow- 
legged  boy  of  all  work,  had  sauntered  up, 
dragging  his  hoe  after  him ;  Aunt  Dike 
was  listening,  arms  akimbo,  from  the 
corner  of  the  house. 

"  That,  sir,"  the  physician  explained, 
"  is  what  we  doctors  call  a  pretty  bad  case 
of  erysipelas." 

The  mountaineer  reined  in  the  yellow 
mule.  "Erysip'lis  hell!  "  he  replied.  "A 
hornet  stung  it." 

The  mule  went  down  the  road  to 
Pelham  in  a  cloud  of  yellow  dust.  Old 
Dike  ambled  back  to  the  kitchen  with 
her  cotton  apron  stuffed  into  her  mouth. 
Ephraim  stumbled  back  to  his  mignonette 
bed.  The  doctor  suddenly  turned  upon 
him  :  "  You  Ephraim  ?  " 


30  The  Valley  Path 

"Yes,  sah!" 

Ah!  he  was  showing  his  ivories. 

"  If  you  ever  tell  that  to  a  living  soul, 
sir,  I  '11  break  every  bone  in  your  body ; 
do  you  hear,  sir  ?  " 

He  could,  however,  hear  Aunt  Dilce 
chuckling  over  the  cake  she  was  about  to 
slap  upon  the  hoe,  that  had  become  too 
hot  while  she  had  been  enjoying  the  call 
of  the  master's  first  patient. 

Yet,  that  first  patient  proved  another 
pivot  upon  which  life  made  a  turn ;  such 
is  the  unsuspected  magnitude  of  trifles. 
It  was  the  real  beginning  of  his  life  in  the 
little  cove  tucked  away  among  the  spurs 
of  the  Cumberlands,  where  he  had  elected 
to  pass  his  summers, — not  his  life.  That 
he  would  have  other  patients  he  never 
once  considered;  no  more  did  he  moralise 
upon  "the  opportunities  of  doing  good," 
which  had  become  too  much  of  a  phrase 
to  hold  real  earnest  meaning.  He  had 
given  up  moralising  long  ago ;  while  as 
for  opportunities ,  he  rather  thought  of  them 


The  Valley  Path  31 

as  something  either  self-creative  or  thrust 
upon  one.  That  they  would  come  he 
took  for  granted,  though  he  refused  to 
seek  them.  When,  at  last,  one  tapped  at 
his  door,  he  did  not  recognise  it  at  all, 
hearing  in  its  voice  only  the  cry  of  suffer- 
ing humanity  ;  he  merely  buttoned  on  his 
coat  and  went  to  meet  it,  that  was  all. 


Chapter  III 

DURING  the  next  week  the  physi- 
cian from  the  city  heard  more  than 
once  how  "  Joe  Bowen  had  gotten  ahead 
o'  the  mad  doctor."  He  had  been  ques- 
tioned about  it  when  he  went  over  to 
the  little  country  town  of  MofFat,  and 
had  even  told  the  joke  of  his  own  ac- 
cord, laughing  at  it  as  heartily  as  the 
rest.  It  proved  an  introduction  for  him, 
at  all  events,  and  went  to  verify  the  old 
saying  that  "  a  bad  reputation  is  better 
than  none."  The  people  roundabout 
heard  of  him  as  a  physician,  and  one 
afternoon,  about  ten  days  after  Joe  had 
made  his  call,  the  doctor  had  a  second. 
A  man  from  up  the  valley,  in  passing, 
left  word  of  "  a  fambly  o'  children  down 
with  scyarlet  fever,  in  a  house  on  the 
Pelham  road."  He  "  reckined  they'd 
32 


The  Valley  Path  33 

take  it  mighty  kind  if  the  mad  doctor'd 
Step  over  an'  see  what  he  could  do  for 
'em." 

Being  a  three-mile  "step,"  he  ordered 
his  horse ;  and  as  a  family  had  been  at- 
tacked with  the  disease,  he  carried  his 
medicine-case  along. 

It  was  his  first  ride  down  the  Pelham 
road,  and,  notwithstanding  there  were  suf- 
fering children  at  the  end  of  his  journey, 
he  rode  slowly.  The  young  spring  was 
abroad ;  the  woods  were  a  mass  of  quiv- 
ering new  greens ;  the  trees  alive  with 
birds ;  where  he  crossed  Pelham  Creek 
the  water  rose  with  a  sibilant  gurgle  to 
the  bay  mare's  belly.  The  birds  made 
merry  over  their  nests  in  the  heart  of 
the  laurel-brake;  in  the  tops  of  the  red 
oak-trees  a  little  mountain  oriole  was 
calling,  —  calling  in  his  half-merry,  half- 
melancholy  song,  the  first  note  of  which 
is  a  whistle,  the  second  an  inquiry,  the 
third  a  regret,  and  the  fourth  an  unmis- 
takable sigh,  —  a  trill  of  music  and  a  wail 


34  The  Valley  Path 

of  melancholy.  The  good  green  grass 
crowded  the  roadside ;  the  wild  honey- 
suckle nodded  to  him  from  the  deeper 
hollows  of  the  wood ;  the  very  winds 
that  fanned  his  cheek  were  gentle,  kind, 
sympathetic.  He  scarcely  saw,  he  only 
felt,  the  glad  new  restfulness  of  living. 

"It  was  a  wise  move,"  he  murmured, 
"a  very  wise  move.  I  am  glad  I  came  to 
the  wilderness."  He  rode  on  for  a  mo- 
ment m  silence,  the  mare's  feet  scarcely 
audible  in  the  light  green  sward  of  the 
almost  untravelled  valley  road.  Suddenly 
he  lifted  his  head  and  looked  about  him, 
snuffing  the  keen,  spring-scented  air. 

"What  a  place  to  die  in!"  he  exclaimed; 
"to  grow  old  and  die  in.  Up,  now!  we 
are  loitering  in  this  Sleepy  Hollow." 

He  touched  the  mare's  neck  with  the 
bridle-rein  lightly,  and  ere  long  the  rest- 
ful woods,  with  their  seduction  of  sound 
and  colour,  lay  behind  him. 

It  was  noon  when  he  reached  the  house, 
one  of  the  ordinary  two-room  log  cabins 


The  Valley  Path  35 

of  the  neighbourhood,  having  a  shed  in  the 
rear,  and  an  open  passage  between  the  liv- 
ing-rooms. 

An  old  woman,  tall  and  gaunt  and  ca- 
daverous-looking, occupied  the  little  home- 
made bench  that  adorned  the  passage ; 
before  her  stood  a  large  jar,  a  crock, 
surmounted  by  a  wooden  top ;  the  crock 
was  doing  duty  as  churn;  the  woman  was 
industriously  plying  the  dasher.  She  rose, 
when  the  doctor  drove  up,  and  called  to 
him  to  "turn  his  nag  in  the  yard,  else  it 
would  be  worrit  ter  death  by  a  loose  mule 
o'  Joe  Bowenses  that  was  rampantin'  the 
country." 

He  obeyed  instructions,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment more  stood  in  the  passage,  inquiring 
after  the  sick. 

"  They're  right  in  thar,"  said  the 
woman,  "if  you're  the  doctor  man." 

"  Are  they  yours  ?  " 

"  Naw,  sir,  they  ain't  mine,  an'  I'm  glad 
of  it,  bein'  as  they're  all  three  'bout  ter 
die.  One  of  'em's  in  an'  about  dead,  I 


36  The  Valley  Path 

reckin.  I  ain't  got  but  one,  an'  he's  a 
man  growed.  Though  I  ain't  tellin'  of 
you,  doctor,  that  I  never  had  no  more. 
I've  done  my  part,  I  reckin ;  I've  got 
'leven  dead  ones.  I  failed  ter  raise  'em; 
the  measles  an'  the  whoopin'-cough  an' 
the  fever  set  in  an'  they  all  went,  —  all 
but  Jim.  Jim  he  tuk  the  jaundice 
once't,  but  he  got  over  it.  I'm  mighty 
glad  ter  meet  you,  Doctor  Borin'." 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  replied  the 
physician,  with  such  honest  simplicity 
and  hearty  sincerity  that  the  woman's 
sallow  face  beamed  the  pleasure  the 
words  gave  her.  It  was  only  a  simple 
greeting  from  a  gentle  heart;  but  be- 
cause of  it  the  mad  doctor  had  one 
friend  more  upon  the  list  of  those  who 
loved  him. 

"  Do  you  live  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Naw,  sir ;  I  live  in  the  first  house  on 
the  road  ter  S'wany,  back  o'  yo'  place. 
My  name's  Tucker ;  Mis'  Tucker.  You 
can  go  in  now  an'  see  the  child'en,  Doc- 


The  Valley  Path  37 

tor  Borin',  if  you  please  ter ;  I  come  over 
ter  try  an'  help  a  bit,  an'  I'll  jist  churn 
this  milk  an'  give  Lissy  a  swaller  o'  fresh 
buttermilk.  Pears  like  she  can't  be  per- 
suaded ter  take  time  to  eat  nothin'." 

He  glanced  carelessly  at  the  low-ceiled 
room,  the  two  beds  occupying  two  corners, 
the  small  trundle-bed  drawn  into  the  cen- 
tre of  the  room,  and  the  little  square  win- 
dow which  did  duty  in  the  way  of  light 
and  ventilation,  the  batten  shutter  thrown 
wide  open.  A  boy  of  ten  years  lay  toss- 
ing upon  the  trundle-bed,  flushed  and 
fretting  with  fever.  Upon  another  bed, 
listless,  and  pale  as  marble,  a  young  girl 
was  lying.  Hers  was  a  complicated  case, 
and  might  prove  a  hopeless  one.  The 
great,  hollow  eyes  were  turned  to  the 
door,  watching  the  doctor ;  a  low,  pant- 
ing moan  issued  continually  from  the 
thin,  bloodless  lips. 

He  took  it  all  in  at  a  glance ;  the  pov- 
erty, the  crowded,  close  air,  the  ignorance 
of  disease,  and  the  suffering  occasioned 


38  The  Valley  Path 

thereby.  But  that  which  appealed  to 
him  above  all  things  was  the  figure  of 
a  young  girl  seated  beside  an  empty 
cradle,  with  a  little  baby  upon  her  knees, 
her  hand  lying  lightly  upon  its  breast. 
At  first  he  had  seen  in  the  uncertain 
light  only  a  coil  of  bright  hair,  of  that 
peculiar  shade  that  is  neither  gold  nor 
auburn ;  it  was  more  like  a  dab  of  warm 
sunshine  in  the  gloom  of  the  place.  As 
his  eye  became  accustomed  to  the  gloom, 
the  outline  of  the  face  grew  broader,  and 
he  saw  where  womanly  tenderness  and 
sweetness  blended  into  a  Madonna-like 
perfection  of  beauty.  She  wore  a  dress 
of  some  dark  stuff,  opened  at  the  throat, 
and  with  the  sleeves  pushed  back  in  clumsy 
little  rolls  above  the  dimpled  elbows,  plump 
and  shapely.  Her  face  was  bent  over  the 
child  upon  her  lap,  and  her  slender,  strong 
fingers  were  feeling  under  the  bosom  of 
the  little  white  gown  for  the  baby's  heart. 
She  lifted  her  head  when  the  physician 
bent  over  her  to  look  into  the  small,  smil- 


The  Valley  Path  39 

ing  face  against  her  knee.  Even  then  he 
noticed  that  the  large  gray  eyes  lifted  to  his 
were  tearless,  the  slender  fingers  were  firm 
and  without  a  tremor ;  if  she  felt  an  emo- 
tion she  held  it  magnificently  in  control. 

"  Go  to  the  others,"  she  said,  in  a  quietly 
impressive  tone.  "  Go  to  the  others  ;  it 
ain't  no  use  to  waste  time  here.  I  felt  its 
heart  stop  beatin'  when  I  heard  your  step 
in  the  passage.  I  ain't  been  able  to  find 
it  any  more." 

Not  even  when  she  began  to  smooth 
the  lids  down  over  the  staring  baby's  eyes, 
did  the  slender  fingers  falter. 

"  Its  ma  is  down  in  the  orchard  with 
its  pa,"  she  continued,  when  the  phy- 
sician questioned  her  concerning  the  par- 
ents. "  They  went  out  to  keep  from 
seein'  it  die.  But  it  died  mighty  easy ; 
there  was  nothing  to  run  from  as  I  can 
see, — jest  a  little  baby  going  to  sleep." 

The  slender  fingers  went  on  smoothing 
the  dead  eyes ;  there  was  a  caressing  some- 
thing about  the  manner  in  which  they 


40  The  Valley  Path 

moved,  that  robbed  their  task  of  horror. 
The  physician  regarded  her  steadily  a 
moment. 

"  Are  you  one  of  the  family?"  he  asked. 
"  Do  you  belong  here  ? " 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied,  in  her  soft,  musi- 
cal drawl.  "I  live  in  the  house  nearest 
yours ;  I'm  Alicia  Reams,  the  miller's 
granddaughter.  They  call  me  c  Lissy ' 
for  short.  I'm  just  here  to  help  some; 
so  if  you  want  anything  I  can  get  it  for 
you.  So  can  Mrs.  Tucker,  if  you'll 
speak  to  her  outside  the  door  there." 

"  Well,"  said  the  physician,  "  I  ( want ' 
a  good  deal.  First  thing,  I  want  that 
churn  stopped,  or  carried  out  of  reach  of 
the  ears  of  this  nervous  girl  here.  Then 
I  want  to  separate  living  and  dead  in  this 
house,  or  we  shall  have  more  dead  in  a 
little  while.  Isn't  there  another  room 
across  the  passage  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  If  you'll  call  Mrs.  Tucker 
to  take  the  baby  I'll  help  you  with  the 
others." 


The  Valley  Path  41 

She  placed  the  dead  child  in  the  arms 
of  the  older  woman,  directed  her  where 
to  find  its  "  things,"  and  sent  her  into  the 
shed-room  to  make  the  tiny  body  ready 
for  burial.  Then  she  gave  a  little  tuck  in 
her  sleeves,  and,  turning  to  the  physician, 
said,  in  a  whisper : 

"I'm  goin'  to  run  down  in  the  orchard 
and  send  the  baby's  pa  to  Cowan  after  a 
coffin  and  things ;  I'll  come  right  back  in 
a  minute.  Try  and  do  somethin'  for 
Cora ;  she's  suffered  lots,  Cora  has." 

She  flitted  away  like  a  dash  of  lost 
sunshine,  leaving  the  real  gloom  of  death 
in  the  room.  Yet  her  presence  lingered ; 
the  low,  sweet  cadence  of  her  voice  still 
sounded  in  the  doctor's  ears ;  the  bright 
face,  with  its  great  gray  eyes,  —  "  shadow 
pools,"  he  called  them,  —  was  still  before 
him.  What  a  face  it  was :  neither  girl's 
nor  woman's,  yet —  lacking.  There  were 
fire,  warmth,  feeling;  a  native  refinement 
marked  her  handling  of  even  the  ordinary 
coarser  duties  which  devolved  upon  her; 


42  The  Valley  Path 

there  was  gentleness  in  every  motion  of 
the  body.  The  touch  of  her  fingers  was 
magnetic  :  her  hand  had  brushed  his  when 
he  examined  the  baby  upon  her  knees, 
and  it  had  thrilled  him  as  he  had  not  been 
thrilled  in  years.  How  strong  her  pres- 
ence, outlined  against  the  weakness  about 
her.  Already  he  had  begun  to  specu- 
late concerning  her ;  surely  the  girl  had 
possibilities,  —  a  future  something  beyond 
the  listless  lives  about  her,  —  ran  his 
thought.  She  was  at  his  side  again 
while  he  was  trying  to  solve  the  riddle 
of  her. 

"  Now,  Doctor  Borin',"  she  said,  "  I'm 
ready  to  help  you  do  something  for  these. 
I'm  ready  to  take  hold,  and  you  needn't 
mind  telling  me;  I'm  used  to  doin'  for 
the  sick.  There's  been  a  good  deal  o' 
sickness  in  this  valley,  and  I've  learned 
to  help  some,  bein'  as  help  was  scarce." 

Together  they  worked ;  he  directing, 
and  lending  a  hand  when  one  was  needed, 
as  it  often  was.  In  a  little  while  the  sick 


The  Valley  Path  43 

had  been  removed  into  the  room  across 
the  passage,  and  made  comfortable  in  the 
fresh,  sweet  beds  for  which  the  humblest 
of  the  region  are  known.  The  boy  was 
soon  fast  asleep  under  the  doctor's  minis- 
trations. The  case  of  Cora,  the  young 
girl,  was  not  so  easily  managed.  Fever 
had  started  again,  and  the  scene  through 
which  she  had  just  passed,  the  grief- 
stricken  mother,  the  dead  baby,  the  rest- 
less fretfulness  of  her  brother,  had  so 
excited  the  patient  that  the  physician 
found  it  difficult  to  calm  her.  He  re- 
mained until  dusk,  and  returned  again  after 
supper,  remaining  until  midnight,  gently 
soothing  his  patient,  until,  with  the  aid 
of  his  skill  and  a  subtle  something  in  his 
presence,  she  fell  into  a  deep  slumber.  At 
midnight  he  left  Alicia  in  charge. 

"  Allow  no  one  to  enter  the  room,"  he 
said  to  her  as  they  stood  together  for  a 
moment  in  the  passage,  where  a  feeble  old 
lantern  was  doing  its  best,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  the  moon,  in  the  matter  of  light- 


44  The  Valley  Path 

ing  the  way  for  the  neighbours  who 
dropped  in  at  all  hours  of  the  night  to 
"  sit  up  with  the  corpse "  in  the  family 
room.  "  Nobody  must  go  in  there  ex- 
cept you  or  Mrs.  Tucker ;  she  has  the 
gift  of  discretion  as  well  as  yourself. 
Above  all  things,  keep  from  the  sick  chil- 
dren what  is  going  on  in  the  next  room. 
I  will  return  at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow ; 
can  you  hold  out  so  long  ? " 

He  could  almost  see  the  laugh  in  her 
gray  eyes,  lifted  to  his,  by  the  sickly  light 
of  the  lantern. 

"  I'm  good  for  a  week  yet,  Doctor 
Borin',"  she  said.  "  Hold  out!  you  don't 
know  Lissy  Reams." 

"  I  shall  know  her,"  he  replied,  "  if  she 
is  to  set  herself  up  as  my  rival,  or  my 
partner,  in  practice  here." 

He  heard  her  low,  gurgling  laugh,  in- 
stantly checked  as  she  remembered  the 
presence  in  the  cabin.  "  We're  neigh- 
bours," she  said ;  "  I  have  got  a  little 
truck-patch  where  I  raise  things  to  sell  at 


The  Valley  Path  45 

S'wanee.     I'll  fetch  you  over  a   mess  of 
beans  soon ;  see  if  I   don't." 

"  And  all  the  fresh  eggs  you  can  spare," 
said  the  doctor.  "  I  want  to  engage  them 
now,  for  years,  —  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  Heish,"  she  said,  softly,  "  don't  make 
me  laugh.  It  ain't  kind,  at  a  time  like 
this.  Besides,  I  might  die  long  befo'  you, 
—  who  knows  ?  " 

"  You  ?  Look  at  those  arms,  will  you  ? 
Then  go  look  in  the  glass,  and  see  the 
blood  come  and  go  in  your  cheeks. 
Moreover,  old  Dike,  my  housekeeper, 
tells  me  that  you  go  up  the  mountain 
every  morning  by  sunup,  and  in  a  canter. 
In  a  canter, — think  of  it !  I  couldn't  walk 
up  in  a  day.  And  you  talk  of  dying  be- 
fore me.  Tut!  Let  me  hear  you  laugh 
again." 

But  the  laugh  did  not  come ;  gazing 
full  into  his  eyes,  she  had  found  there 
nothing,  notwithstanding  the  lightness  of 
his  tone,  to  encourage  mirth.  In  the  lan- 
tern's light  the  doctor  saw  an  unmistakable 


46  The  Valley  Path 

shadow,  faint,  vague,  and  fleeting,  hover 
for  an  instant  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  ain't  always  so  lively,"  she  said, 
slowly,  "  nor  so  reasonable,  neither,  I 
reckon.  Sometimes  I  have  the  blues 
awful,  and  then  I'm  just  good  for  nothin'. 
I  ain't  any  help  to  anybody  when  I  get 
the  blues.  And  most  of  the  time  it's  just 
about  nothin'  I  have  'em.  Ain't  I  an 
awful  goose  ? " 

As  if  the  confession  were  precisely  that 
which  he  had  expected,  he  said,  in  a  vague, 
dreamful  tone,  "I  know, — yes,  I  under- 
stand." 

"Doctor  Borin'?"  The  eager  surprise 
in  her  voice  quite  startled  him. 

"Why,  you  see,"  he  said  in  explanation, 
"we  doctors  possess  certain  secret  en- 
trances to  the  soul,  not  permitted  others. 
We  understand  character  as  well  as  body. 
Now  you  are  what  we  in  our  profession 
would  call  ethereal, — that  is,  pertaining  to 
the  spirit.  You  are  a  dreamer." 

She  laughed  softly,  under  her  breath, 


The  Valley  Path  47 

lest  the  gay  sound  should  reach  the 
troubled  ear  of  the  bereaved,  and  jar  un- 
pleasantly. 

"I'm  a  peddler  of  truck,"  she  replied. 
"I  sell  vegetables  to  the  college  boardin'- 
house  at  SVanee.  In  the  winter  I  sell 
butter  and  eggs  and  dried  beans  to  the 
same  house.  That's  my  life  pretty  much, 
and  that's  the  kind  of  dreamer  I  am. 
Though  I  ain't  sayin'  but  I'd  like — " 

"  There,"  said  he,  "  I  told  you  so. 
Your  garden  rows  are  full  of  your  dreams, 
dropped  in  with  your  seed.  And  your 
egg  basket  wouldn't  begin  to  hold  the 
fancies  that  fill  your  heart  while  you  trip 
up  the  mountain  to  Sewanee." 

He  left  her  standing  in  the  passage,  her 
bare  arms  folded  upon  her  breast  and 
gleaming  like  silver  in  the  mingled  light 
of  moon  and  lantern.  The  picture  of  her 
stayed  with  him  while  he  rode  home  in 
the  soundless  midnight;  the  fair  young 
face  with  that  dainty  mingling  of  colour 
which  belongs  alone  to  first  sweet  youth ; 


48  The  Valley  Path 

the  coy  blending  of  girl  and  woman  ;  the 
graceful,  well-fulled  body ;  and  the  soul 
lurking  in  the  gray  deeps  of  eyes  which, 
once  seeing,  would  for  ever  refuse  the 
darkness  of  life's  ways.  Out  of  place,  — 
as  much  out  of  place  in  that  wilderness 
cabin  as  his  silver  doorplate  on  the  hut  at 
the  foot  of  the  mountain. 

There  was  a  tragedy  in  her  life ;  the 
bare  fact  of  her  being  was  a  tragedy,  and 
could  round  to  no  other  end  than  the 
tragic.  Some  souls  are  born  to  it;  and 
whether  they  live  quietly,  unknown,  and 
die  tamely  in  their  beds,  unmourned,  or 
whether  their  lives,  like  candles,  are 
snuffed  out  at  their  best  brightness,  amid 
the  lamentations  of  the  multitude,  matters 
nothing  and  alters  nothing.  The  tragedy 
has  been  enacted ;  the  soul  has  suffered, 
and  has  fulfilled  that  whereunto  it  was 
born. 

Suddenly  he  gave  the  lines  a  quick,  im- 
patient jerk.  "  Bah  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  then 
in  a  softer  tone :  "  I  am  bewildered  by  a 


The  Valley  Path  49 

dash  of  yellow  hair,  and  a  dabble  of  pink 
and  white  cheeks.  I  am  an  old  fool. 
The  girl  will  marry  some  strapping  moun- 
taineer, rear  a  houseful  of  tow-headed 
children,  wash,  scrub,  bake,  and  be  happy, 
after  the  manner  of  her  kind.  But  I 
believe  —  "  The  words  were  lost  in  a 
gurgle  of  water, —  PelhamCreek  among  its 
gray  rocks,  winding  down  to  meet  him  at 
the  ford. 

"  Who  knows  ?  who  knows  ?  "  Her 
words  came  back  to  him  in  the  lisping 
flow  as  the  mare's  feet  touched  the  moon- 
flecked  flood.  "  I  might  die  long  before 
you,  —  who  knows  ?  " 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  he  mused  ;  "  who 
knows  anything?  And  how  little  any  of 
us  know,  for  that  matter.  Yet  /  know 
the  miller's  grandchild,  with  half  a  show- 
ing, would  not  live  the  prosaic  life  of  the 
mountaineer,  despite  the  strong  brown 
arms  and  the  thriving  'truck-patch."1 

What  a  contrast  she  presented  to  the 
women  he  had  known ;  what  a  con- 


50  The  Valley  Path 

trast  to  her,  that  one  woman,  who  stood 
out  in  his  thoughts  like  a  ghost  in  the 
midday,  —  a  ghost  that  is  not  seen,  but 
felt,  and  is  cold,  chilling  the  soul  of 
warm  life. 

Then  he  thought  of  his  friends  at  home, 
his  former  confreres  and  companions. 
What  would  they  think  of  the  extent  to 
which  his  "  crankiness  "  had  carried  him  ? 
—  ministering  in  hovels  at  midnight,  with- 
out so  much  as  the  mean  motive  of  a  few 
dollars  by  way  of  recompense. 

"  They  may  think  as  they  choose,"  was 
his  thought.  "  Most  men,  all  men,  I  be- 
lieve, have  their  cranks, — their  £ ideal  life' 
they  call  it.  The  only  difference  with  us 
is  that  I  am  fool  enough  to  indulge  mine. 
I  claim  the  right  to  live  my  own  life,  —  to 
spoil  it  myself,  rather  than  permit  others 
to  spoil  it  for  me ;  since  I  spoil  it  at  least 
in  the  faith  that  I  am  doing  my  best  for 
it.  And  after  all,  life  is  a  solitary  thing, 
and  must  be  lived  alone.  They  who  pass 
upon  it  and  advise  about  it,  can  do  no 


The  Valley  Path  51 

more ;  for  life  in  the  abstract,  like  death, 
knows  no  duality.  Now  this  girl  —  but 
enough ;  I  am  an  old  fool." 

Yet  the  picture  of  her  stayed  with  him ; 
and  when  at  last  he  fell  asleep  in  his  own 
bed,  drawn  as  he  always  had  it,  where  the 
moonlight  from  the  small  old-fashioned 
window  fell  athwart  his  pillow,  he  still 
saw  her,  in  a  dream,  sitting  beside  an 
empty  cradle,  with  a  little  waxen  baby 
on  her  knees. 


Chapter  IV 

DOCTOR   BORING  had   an   early 
breakfast    the    next    morning,    and 
immediately  after  ordered  his  horse. 

"They  are  as  like  as  not  to  lay  the 
corpse  out  on  the  bed  with  one  of  my 
patients,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Aunt  Dike's 
complaining.  "  Moreover,  I  left  the 
little  Reams  woman  there,"  —  it  neverx 
occurred  to  him  to  call  Alicia,  as  his  mind 
had  received  its  first  impression  of  her,  a 
girl, — "and  she  must  be  all  used  up  by 
this  time.  One  of  those  children  is  going 
to  have  a  fight  for  life,  and  if  I  am  to  get 
in  any  work  it  must  be  at  the  start ;  there 
is  scant  need  of  a  physician  at  the  finish. 
I  am  going  to  send  Alicia  Reams  over 
here,  Aunt  Dike;  and  I  want  you  to 
have  a  good  hot  breakfast  for  her,  and 
make  her  take  the  time  to  eat  it.  Be 
52 


The  Valley  Path  53 

good  to  her,  black  mammy ;  when  she 
gets  here,  look  after  her;  make  her 
rest  awhile.  Then  do  you  send  the 
horse  back  to  me." 

He  found  Alicia  as  busy  as  though  she 
had  not  lost  a  wink  of  sleep  in  a  month. 
She  was  bending  over  a  saucepan  in  the 
shed-room,  mixing  a  meal  poultice  for 
Cora,  who  had  complained  of  "  a  mis'ry 
in  the  side." 

Doctor  Boring  went  from  room  to 
room  with  the  freedom  to  which  they 
were  too  well  accustomed  to  consider  it 
presuming,  until  he  found  Alicia  in  the 
shed-room. 

"  I  will  attend  to  that,"  he  said,  indi- 
cating the  poultice ;  "  do  you  get  on  your 
bonnet  and  mount  my  horse,  —  can  you 
ride  ?  " 

She  nodded,  smiling.  "  I've  always 
lived  nigh  enough  to  the  mount'n  to 
be  called  a  mount'n  girl,"  she  said; 
"  an'  mount'n  girls  can  ride  anything, 
from  broomstick  to  steer.  Is  somebody 


54  The  Valley  Path 

else  sick,  an'  you  want  me  to  go  there, 
to  help  nurse  'em  ?  " 

"  Hell !  "  he  murmured.  "  Go  there  ? 
No  I  I  want  you  to  mount  that  horse 
and  get  away  from  sick  folks.  Get  away 
like  you  were  getting  away  from  Indians, 
measles,  small-pox,  yellow  jackets.  Do 
you  understand?" 

She  set  the  saucepan  upon  the  hearth 
and  crammed  her  apron  into  her  mouth. 

"  Great  I  am  !  "  she  exclaimed,  when  the 
disposition  to  laugh  outright  had  been  over- 
come. "  I  have  heard  you  were  wicked." 

"You  haven't  heard  the  half,"  he  re- 
plied. "Here!  throw  that  mash  in  the 
pig-pen  ;  I  have  a  mustard  plaster  for  the 
pain  in  the  side.  The  children  are  both 
better.  I  am  glad  of  that.  I've  got  to 
prove  to  these  people  that  I'm  a  doctor, 
even  if  I  don't  know  a  hornet's  sting 
when  it  is  thrust  under  my  nose." 

A  flash  of  the  gray  eyes,  a  dimpling  of 
the  cheek,  and  a  twitching  of  the  red  lips 
told  him  that  she  knew  the  story,  though 


The  Valley  Path  55 

she  said,  with  proper  demureness,  "  Did 
somebody  allow  you  didn't  know  the  dif- 
ference ? " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't,"  he  admitted,  with  open 
candour.  "  I  was  completely  sold.  But 
if  I  can  help  these  little  children  back  to 
health  I  am  willing  to  take  my  chances 
with  you  people.  Now,  Lissy,  you  must 
do  as  I  say.  Aunt  Dike  is  holding  your 
breakfast  back  until  you  come.  You  ride 
on  to  my  house,  take  a  good  rest,  a  good 
breakfast,  and  then  go  home  and  go  to 
bed." 

"  I  ain't  tired,"  she  replied,  "  and  I 
ought  to  stay  here  and  help  about  bury- 
in'  of  the  baby." 

"  Burying  be  hanged ! "  he  replied. 
"  Unless  you  do  as  I  tell  you  I  shall 
go  back  and  eat  the  breakfast  myself, 
and  leave  the  sick  to  go  as  the  baby 
went.  Do  you  understand  ?  If  you 
value  your  friends  here,  and  my  reputa- 
tion as  a  physician,  you  must  do  as  I 
command." 


56  The  Valley  Path 

"  Oh,  these  ain't  my  friends,"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  never  was  here  before." 

"  What  ?  what  are  you  doing  here, 
then?" 

"  Helpin',"  she  replied.  "  I  always 
help.  That's  all  I  can  do ;  I'm  an  aw- 
ful sinner  —  worse  than  you,  I  reckin. 
You'll  hear  all  about  it.  But  I  can't 
help  it;  I'm  bound  to  act  accordin'  to 
my  light,  and  I  haven't  seen  the  way  to 
the  mourners'  bench  yet.  And  Brother 
Barry  —  he's  the  circuit-rider  —  he  says 
I'm  bound  for  hell  and  torment,  and 
that  I'm  one  o'  the  stiff-necked  and 
hard  of  heart.  Did  you  notice  I  didn't 
even  cry  when  the  baby  died  in  my  lap  ? 
I  couldn't ;  all  the  rest  cried.  But  me — 
I  couldn't  see  what  there  was  to  sorrow 
about  in  a  little  babyjist  slippin'  from  this 
world  o'  trouble  up  to  God.  It  was  all 
mighty  sweet  and  happy  to  me.  I  was 
sort  of  glad  to  see  it  go ;  I  knew  it  would 
never  be  worried  with  doubts,  like  me,  nor 
be  hindered  none  by  lack  o'  light  and 


The  Valley  Path  57 

grace.  Doctor  Borin',  I  hear  Cora  cry- 
in'  with  the  mis'ry  in  her  side ;  won't  you 
go  in  and  put  the  mustard  to  it  ?  An'  I'll 
run  'long  and  get  the  breakfast  you  saved. 
It  was  mighty  good  of  you.  I'll  sure  en- 
joy it,  I  know  I  will.  An'  I'll  surely  fetch 
the  mess  o'  beans  by  an'  by,  and  fresh  eggs 
enough  for  your  many  a  breakfast.  If," 
she  added,  roguishly,  "  you  don't  die  of 
old  age  befo'  the  hens  can  get  on  their 
nestes." 

When  she  had  gone,  although  he  gave 
his  full  attention  to  the  sick,  she  was  not 
once  absent  from  his  thoughts.  If  she 
had  puzzled  him  the  night  before,  the 
piquant  beauty  of  her  face  only  charmed 
and  bewitched  him  the  more  in  the  good 
glow  of  the  daylight.  He  had  felt  a  great 
curiosity  in  seeing  it  again ;  without  giv- 
ing form  to  the  doubt,  he  had  somehow 
felt  vaguely  that  something  was  lacking 
to  the  face's  full  perfection.  She  was 
not  slow  or  dull,  after  the  manner  of 
the  mountain  maidens,  owing  perhaps  to 


58  The  Valley  Path 

the  influence  and  teachings  of  her  valley 
mother.  There  was  nothing  stupid,  none 
of  the  heavy  country  girl  about  her.  Yet, 
when  the  large  eyes  looked  full  into  his, 
he  saw  the  wavering,  weaker  lights  under 
the  strong  purplish  gray ;  and  when  she 
had  gone  he  whispered  to  his  own  inquir- 
ing heart :  "  A  nature  to  be  moulded  ;  an 
impressionist,  with  a  tendency  towards  the 
morbid." 

It  was  noon  when  he  left  the  house  of 
mourning.  The  little  baby  had  been  laid 
to  sleep  in  a  neighbouring  burying-ground, 
and  the  sick  were  doing  reasonably  well. 
He  had  found  a  good  deal  to  contend 
with  in  the  matter  of  the  infant's  burial. 
In  the  tall,  gaunt  minister  who  had  arrived 
in  time  to  conduct  the  services,  and  in  the 
stupid  persistence  with  which  he  insisted 
upon  the  performance  of  the  duty  upon 
which  he  had  come,  Doctor  Boring  rec- 
ognised "  Brother  Barry,"  the  Methodist 
circuit-rider.  A  funeral  was  expected, 
was  customary  ;  Brother  Barry  was  not  to 


The  Valley  Path  59 

be  set  aside  by  the  ravings  of  an  infidel. 
But  when  the  infidel  took  the  father  of 
the  dead  babe  aside,  and  swore  in  large 
round  English  that  the  singing  and  con- 
fusion would  endanger  the  life  of  Cora, 
Brother  Barry,  for  once  in  his  life,  was 
forced  to  the  wall.  So  the  men  tiptoed 
into  the  passage,  lifted  the  small  pine 
coffin  in  their  hands,  and  the  rest  followed 
noiselessly  to  the  little  grave  that  had  been 
prepared  in  the  valley  shade,  within  reach 
of  the  lisping  music  of  Elk  River. 

"The  child  will  sleep  as  well  without 
their  howling,"  said  the  doctor,  as  the  bay 
mare  trotted  along  the  valley  road  in  the 
direction  of  home.  "  It  will  sleep  as  well, 
and  wake  as  surely,  —  if  they  wake,  those 
silent  sleepers." 

His  thought  took  a  sudden  melancholy 
turn.  He  let  the  lines  fall  upon  the  bay's 
neck,  and  she  fell  into  the  ordinary  jog- 
trot of  animals  less  daintily  sired  than  this 
glossy  bay  Morgan.  She  even  stopped 
to  seize  a  mouthful  of  the  new  greens 


6o  The  Valley  Path 

crowding  the  roadside,  without  rebuke 
from  the  dreaming  rider. 

Suddenly  he  roused,  and  took  up  the 
lines  sharply ;  his  ear  had  caught  a  note 
of  discord  in  the  noontime  harmony.  He 
listened;  a  twinkle  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
a  smile  parted  for  a  moment  his  lips.  He 
had  almost  reached  the  turn  of  the  road 
where  his  cabin  would  stand  revealed. 
Already  he  could  see  the  low  worm  fence, 
which  he  meant  to  replace  with  a  pretty 
paling  by  and  by,  and  a  raw-boned,  flea- 
bitten  mare  that  was  cropping  the  new 
buds  of  his  favourite  quince-tree,  to  which 
she  had  been  "  hitched  "  by  a  bridle-rein 
twisted  among  the  low-drooping  branches 
that  overhung  the  fence  upon  the  outside. 
He  had  a  caller.  He  recognised  the  flea- 
bitten  mare ;  he  had  seen  it  at  the  baby's 
burial  when  Brother  Barry  rode  up.  He 
also  recognised  the  voice  of  Aunt  Dike 
"  laying  the  law  down "  to  bow-legged 
Ephraim : 

"  You    Efum  ?     Git    up   from    dar    en 


The  Valley  Path  61 

he'p  dribe  de  peeg  out'n  de  yard,  fo'  hit 
root  all  de  marster's  flowers  up,  an'  hit  dat 
peeg  dar  in  de  haid  dis  minute.  Quit 
makin'  all  dat  fuss  ter  let  folks  know  dey 
done  lef  de  gate  op'n,  en  tu'n  all  de 
peegs  in  de  country  in  de  yard.  Sooey 
dar  !  Haid  'im  ofF'n  dat  vi-let  baid,  nig- 
ger. Dar  !  dar  he  goes  !  knock  'im  in  de 
haid  !  Skeer  'im  out'n  dem  chulups  !  en 
min'  yo'  own  bus'ness  !  'Tain'  none  yo' 
bus' ness  ter  let  folks  know  dey  done  lef 
de  gate  op'n,  same  lack  dey  ain'  got  no 
sense,  en  no  raisin'  nohow.  Dar !  hit  dat 
peeg !  Don't  let  'im  inter  dat  minuet 
baid,  I  tell  yer.  Call  'im  off!  Peeg? 
Peeg  ?  Sooey  dar,  sooey  !  Call  'im  ! 
haid  'im  dar  fo'  I  knock  you  down  wid 
dis  here  rock,  en  make  you  mo'  bow- 
laigged  en  what  you  is  a'raidy.  Hit  'im  ! 
sooey  dar !  Whi'  folks  know  niggers  ain' 
got  nuffin  ter  do  'cept  ter  run  de  hogs 
out.  Dat's  what  de  good  Lord  made 
dey-all  fur ;  jes'  ter  'commerdate  po'  white 
trash.  Look  at  dat  peeg !  sooey !  haid 


62  The  Valley  Path 

'im  dar !  haid  'im  !  Now  you  got  him  ! 
haid  'im  off  todes  de  gate.  Dar !  easy 
now  —  haid  'im  in —  Dat  fool  nigger 
done  let  dat  horg  slip  froo  his  Jaigs." 

The  doctor  heard  every  word ;  so  too 
had  the  guest  within  doors,  as  Aunt 
Dike  meant  he  should.  He  saw  the 
old  woman's  chase  after  the  interloper, 
and  recognised  the  jeopardy  of  his  pets, 
the  flower  beds.  Yet  he  smiled  as  he 
dismounted  and  tossed  his  bridle  to 
Ephraim.  The  little  gate  still  swung 
wide  open  upon  its  hinges,  just  as  the  vis- 
itor had  left  it ;  a  pair  of  yellow,  weather- 
beaten  saddle-bags  lay  upon  his  doorstep, 
and  Zip,  his  little  black  terrier,  was  in- 
dustriously seeking  an  investigation  of 
their  contents. 

It  was  the  first  call  the  circuit-rider  had 
made  at  the  cabin.  The  doctor  chuckled. 

"  Liked  my  looks,  I  suppose,"  was  his 
reflection,  "  or  else  he  saw  my  chicken- 
coop  ;  —  these  Methodists  !  " 

Old  Dike,  none  the  cleaner  for  her  race 


The  Valley  Path  63 

with  the  hog,  hobbled  forward  to  say,  in 
the  half-complaining  tone  familiar  to  her 
race: 

"  De  preacher  ob  de  gospil  am  in  de 
house,  marster;  en  he  look  lack  he  tol- 
er'ble  hongry  fur  his  dinner." 

The  doctor  laughed  softly,  rescuing  the 
saddle-bags,  thereby  bringing  upon  him- 
self an  onslaught  from  the  terrier. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  "do  you  be 
sure  you  fix  him  up  a  good  one." 

"  Who,  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you.  And  tell  Ephraim  to  take 
the  mare  to  the  barn." 

The  old  woman's  face  wore  a  knowing 
look. 

"  He  say  he  ain't  got  but  jes'  a  minute 
ter  set.  He  say  he  got  ter  be  about  his 
Marster's  business." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  have  heard 
something  like  that  before.  You  had 
better  get  the  dinner  ready ;  chicken  pie 
and  apple  dumplings." 

Still  she  didn't  move  ;  evidently  there 


64  The  Valley  Path 

was  news  yet.  He  waited  a  moment  for 
its  coming: 

"  Dat  little  gal  f'm  down  yon'er  e't  tol- 
er'ble  hearty  dis  mawnin'." 

"  Who  ?  what  ?  Oh,  Lissy.  Did  she  ? 
Well,  I'm  glad  of  that.  She's  a  good  girl. 
You  must  be  good  to  Lissy." 

"  I  sho  am,"  was  the  hearty  reply. 
"  She  mighty  p'lite,  en  thankful.  Dat 
little  gal  hab  good  raisin',  sho's  you  bawn." 

"  Oh,  get  out  with  you,"  laughed  the 
doctor,  "  the  girl  knows  no  more  of  cour- 
tesies than  Zip  here.  Never  been  beyond 
the  mountain  in  her  life." 

"  Den  she  am  a  bawn  lady,"  declared 
old  Dike,  nothing  daunted.  "  She  ain' 
no  po'  white  trash." 

"  See  here  now,  Aunt  Dike,  what  did 
the  girl  give  you  ?  Oh,  you  needn't  pro- 
test, I  know  well  enough  she  bought  you." 

"'Fo'  God,  marster,  she  ain'  gimme  a 
bressed  thing.  She  say  she  gwine  fetch 
me  some  terbacky  out'n  o'  her  grandpa's 
patch  bimeby,  dat's  all.  En  she  say  she 


The  Valley  Path  65 

wish  ter  de  goodness  you  ud  come  over  dar 
en  see  her  grandpa;  he's  plumb  peart  en 
healthy  en  dat  fond  o'  comfy!  En  she  e't 
her  bre'kfus  toler'ble  healfy;  she  sho  did." 

"  Aunt  Dike,"  said  the  physician,  "  my 
tobacco  box  is  on  the  mantel;  help  your- 
self, you  sly  old  rogue.  Now  go  and  get 
the  dinner  for  the  preacher.  I  am  going 
in  to  invite  him  to  remain  to  it." 

"  You  won't  have  ter  baig,  I'll  be 
boun',"  was  the  parting  shot  as  she  went 
back  to  her  kitchen. 

The  doctor  opened  the  door  and  went 
in.  As  he  entered  his  cosy  little  study,  a 
stalwart,  robust  figure,  clad  in  a  rusty  black 
suit  of  clothes  and  carrying  a  worn  silk 
hat  in  his  hand,  rose  to  meet  him.  The 
face  wore  a  woebegone,  lugubrious  ex- 
pression, as  if  the  sins  of  the  world  had 
been  too  many  for  the  broad,  bent 
shoulders.  A  mass  of  long,  sandy,  un- 
kempt hair  lay  upon  the  sleek  collar  of 
the  ecclesiastic  coat.  He  was  a  typical 
backwoods  circuit-rider  of  the  old  time, 


66  The  Valley  Path 

when  zeal  was  supposed  to  do  duty  for 
education ;  the  air  of  conscious  rectitude, 
of  superior  knowledge,  and  a  friendly  fa- 
miliarity with  the  Holy  of  Holies  that  was 
vouchsafed  to  but  few,  stamped  his  call- 
ing beyond  a  shadow  of  doubting.  He 
extended  his  hand  to  meet  the  physician's : 

"  I  come  in  the  name  of  the  Master," 
said  he. 

"  Well,  you  found  the  door  open,  at 
all  events,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  I  tarried 
awhile  with  the  sick  down  the  valley. 
Resume  your  seat,  sir." 

"Death  and  disease  walk  the  earth," 
chanted  the  divine,  in  solemn  measures. 
"  Sorrow  an'  desolation  walk  hand  in 
hand.  One  sows  an'  another  reaps,  and 
no  man  knoweth  what  a  day  may  bring 
forth.  My  brother,  I  am  come  in  the 
name  of  the  Master.  I  come  not  to  call 
the  righteous  but  sinners  to  repentance. 
I  have  come  to  beg  you  to  repent  —  to 
warn  you,  and  to  teach  you." 

"  Wait  until  after  dinner,"  said  the  doc- 


The  Valley  Path  67 

tor.  "I'm  a  terrible  old  fool,  I  reckon, 
but  I  like  to  take  my  lesson  on  a  full 
stomach.  Sit  down  there,  Brother  Barry. 
I  am  going  to  fill  a  pipe  for  you,  and  in- 
troduce you  to  my  dog  Zip ;  then  I  am 
going  to  give  you  a  good  dinner,  another 
pipe,  and  a  peep  at  the  prettiest  colt  in 
this  valley.  Then  I  am  going  to  send  you 
up  those  stairs  into  my  guest-chamber,  'the 
upper  room'  where  you  are  to  have  a  bath, 
a  nap,  and  remain  as  long  as  you  choose. 
Heavens !  don't  object,  man ;  doesn't 
your  Methodist  nose  tell  you  there  is 
chicken  in  the  pot  ?  Chicken  pie ;  and 
here  is  Aunt  Dike  come  to  tell  us  it  is  on 
the  table.  Come  out ;  we  will  talk  relig- 
ion some  other  time." 

Brother  Barry,  however,  seemed  dis- 
posed to  argument. 

"  My  Master's  business,"  —  he  pro- 
tested, though  decidedly  more  feebly  than 
at  first, — "I  must  be  about  it;  I  cannot 
tarry." 

"Why,"  laughed  the  doctor, "  I  thought 


68  The  Valley  Path 

you  were  sent  here  to  seek  a  lost  sheep.  I 
tell  you,  sir,  you've  run  against  the  tough- 
est old  ram  that  ever  tried  to  butt  its  own 
brains  out.  You  may  spend  a  week  on 
me  if  you  are  so  inclined,  but  you  are  not 
commanded  to  starve  meanwhile ;  on  the 
other  hand,  you  are  told  not  to  muzzle 
the  ox  that  treadeth  out  the  corn.  Come 
out  to  your  fodder." 

The  invitation  was  too  hearty  for  re- 
sistance. The  Methodist  placed  his  tall 
hat  on  the  table  and  followed  the  doctor 
out  to  dinner.  It  was  the  first  of  many 
they  were  to  take  together,  these  two 
whose  lives  were  to  cross,  but  not,  in  the 
finer  sense,  to  touch ;  these  two,  the  one 
broad  and  warm  with  the  sunshine  of  all 
charity,  the  other  narrow  and  ignorant  and 
immovable,  making  religion  a  dark  and 
unreal  thing,  and  demanding  of  its  advo- 
cates a  life  of  perpetual  gloom  in  a  path 
beset  by  dangers,  curses,  terrors;  these 
two,  the  one  with  his  eye  fixed  ever  upon 
the  sun,  the  other  a  groveller  among  the 


The  Valley  Path  69 

glooms,  believing  always  in  the  depravity 
of  humanity  and  always  bearing  the  bur- 
den of  its  rescue. 

The  Methodist  made  himself  at  home 
from  the  moment  he  entered  the  doctor's 
door.  He  was  made  as  welcome  as  any 
might  desire ;  only  upon  matters  of  relig- 
ion the  physician  refused  to  talk.  But 
Brother  Barry  was  a  man  of  infinite  re- 
sources, and  failing  to  take  the  doctor  by 
one  means  he  had  recourse  to  others. 
That  he  would  be  converted  at  the  last 
the  circuit-rider  held  no  shadow  of  doubt. 

The  first  night  of  his  arrival,  when  the 
physician  had  been  sleeping  for  hours  he 
was  awakened  by  a  tremendous  thumping 
upon  the  floor  of  the  chamber  overhead. 

He  sprang  from  his  bed  with  a  start, 
and  ran  to  the  door  of  the  little  old-fash- 
ioned stairway  that  went  up  from  his  own 
bedroom.  His  thought  was  that  Brother 
Barry  was  again  "surrounding  the  throne," 
—  an  exercise  that  had  kept  him  awake 
for  more  than  an  hour  during  the  earlier 


yo  The  Valley   Path 

night.  But  this  was  more  serious;  Brother 
Barry  was  calling  for  a  light. 

"  Fetch  a  light,  brother  ;  fetch  a  light 
quick,  and  pencil  and  paper ;  I  have  got 
a  thought." 

The  doctor's  gray  head  was  thrust  into 
the  doorway. 

"Oh,  you  go  to  sleep,  Brother  Barry," 
said  he, "  and  trust  the  Lord  for  another." 
And,  closing  the  door,  the  old  infidel  went 
chuckling  back  to  bed. 

They  were  odd  companions,  these  two ; 
yet  each  was  interesting  to  the  other. 
The  preacher  regarded  the  doctor  with  a 
kind  of  pious  pity,  while  the  physician's 
feeling  for  him  would  have  partaken 
largely  of  contempt,  but  that  his  good 
heart  recognised  the  fact  that  the  Meth- 
odist was  honest  even  in  his  ignorance. 
After  three  days  Brother  Barry  threw  his 
saddle-bags  across  the  back  of  the  flea- 
bitten  mare  and  took  his  departure.  In 
that  three  days'  time  he  had  vainly 
endeavoured  to  impress  the  doctor  with 


The  Valley  Path  71 

a  sense  of  his  great  danger,  and  had  been 
laughed  at,  or  cut  off  with  the  offer  of  a 
pipe,  or  a  plate  of  fruit.  He  had  been 
ready  to  swear  a  dozen  times ;  only  the 
respect  in  which  he  held  his  cloth  had  been 
sufficient  to  prevent  an  outbreak.  The 
doctor  had  sworn  a  dozen  times,  and  more. 
Yet  he  had  never  once  lost  patience ;  not 
even  when  his  guest  had  pronounced,  with 
tragic  vehemence,  the  "Woe !  woe !  to 
them  that  are  at  ease  in  Zion."  All  he 
had  said  in  reply  was,  "Hell!"  and  he 
had  laughed  while  saying  that. 


Chapter  V 

A  RED  rose  bloomed  beside  the  door, 
and  the  bees  were  busy  among  the 
honeysuckle  trailing  the  piazza  and  crowd- 
ing the  windows  of  the  miller's  house. 
Not  that  the  dusty  old  miller,  or  his 
sharp-voiced  wife,  ever  gave  a  thought  to 
the  training  of  the  vines ;  they  were 
Alicia's ;  her  hand,  with  the  assistance  of 
Al,  had  put  them  there,  and  carefully 
tended  them  until  they  were  a  bower  of 
bloom,  where  the  bees  came  summer  days, 
hunting  for  honey  among  the  pink  and 
pearl  white  blossoms. 

Doctor  Boring  recognised  her  spirit 
everywhere  about  the  picturesque  little 
place  the  first  morning  he  went  to  call 
upon  his  neighbours.  He  had  felt  some- 
thing like  admiration  for  the  miller,  as  he 
72 


The  Valley  Path  73 

stood  for  a  moment  looking  over  the  gate 
into  the  pretty  sloping  yard  with  the 
newly  whitewashed  cabin  in  the  centre. 
There  was  an  air  of  thrift  about  the  place, 
as  if  the  little  mill  on  the  creek  had  taken 
its  full  measure  of  toll.  Even  the  greens 
in  the  garden  seemed  to  have  outgrown 
the  vegetables  of  other  gardens.  The 
peas  were  clambering  up  their  cedar 
stakes,  a  riotous  jumble  of  white  bloom 
and  delicate  tendril.  And  above  the 
stakes,  a  glister  of  gold  in  the  sunlight, 
he  saw  Alicia's  bright  head,  beside  a  slen- 
der youth,  whom  he  recognised  as  "  little 
Al,"  the  delicately  disposed  brother. 

The  boy  was  adjusting  some  vines 
that  had  had  a  tumble,  together  with 
their  props.  That  he  found  his  task  an 
amusing  one  might  be  easily  inferred 
from  the  laughter  with  which  he  re- 
ceived Alicia's  instructions  as  to  the 
manner  in  which  the  work  should  be 
done.  More  than  once  she  playfully 
boxed  his  ears,  all  unconscious  of  the 


74  The  Valley  Path 

visitor  regarding  them  over  the  palings 
of  the  low  fence. 

The  doctor,  watching,  wondered  how 
many  milkmaid  castles  she  had  erected 
upon  the  proceeds  of  the  truck-patch, 
when  the  peas  and  early  potatoes  should 
be  ready  for  the  boarding-house  at  Sewa- 
nee. 

A  smile  played  about  his  lips  and 
twinkled  for  a  moment  in  the  eyes 
that  were  not  always  mirrors  of  mirth, 
and  he  playfully  shouted  : 

"  Look  out  for  frost !  " 

Alicia  gave  a  startled  little  scream,  and 
turned  quickly  to  find  the  owner  of  the 
voice. 

Al  laughed  merrily  over  her  surprise. 

"  You  ware  good  scared,  Lissy,  I  do 
believe,"  said  he ;  "  you  turned  plumb 
white." 

She  gave  him  no  reply,  if  indeed  she 
heard  him.  She  was  full  of  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  Doctor  Boring. 

"  Come  in,"  she  called,  "  come  right  in; 


The  Valley  Path  75 

the  dogs  don't  bite.  I'm  awful  glad  to 
see  you.  So'll  grandad  be,  I  know.  The 
beans  are  fullin'  right  along;  you'll  get 
your  mess  by  and  by ;  if,  as  granny  says, 
4  God  spares  me.'  I  certainly  think  He 
will,  I'm  that  well  and  healthy.  Though 
I  reckon  Brother  Barry  thinks  He  ought 
not  to,  seein'  I'm  such  a  sinner.  But 
sakes !  how  I  do  run  on,  without  ever 
stoppin*  to  tell  you  this  is  my  brother, 
Doctor  Borin'.  This  is  Al.  I've  in  and 
about  raised  Al ;  you  see  he  fell  to  my 
care  when  he  was  just  nine  years  old. 
Don't  you  think  I've  brought  him  up 
toler'ble  well  ? " 

The  laughing  face,  full  a  foot  above  her 
own,  testified  to  the  bringing  up,  at  all 
events. 

"  I  come  mighty  nigh  outgrowin'  my 
gyardeen,"  said  the  boy.  "  If  I  keep  on 
I'm  mortal  certain  I'll  ketch  up  with  her 
by  and  by,  doctor." 

"  But  you  can't  step  over  that  three 
years'  gap  between  us,  son,"  laughed 


j6  The  Valley  Path 

Alicia.  "  No,  sir,  he  ain't  anything 
but  a  boy  dressed  up  in  men's  clothes, 
Doctor  Borin'.  Don't  you  mind  his 
grown-up  airs ;  I'm  three  years  older 
than  him,  an'  I  ain't  so  mighty  old,  as 
I  can  make  out.  He's  jist  a  boy,  doc- 
tor, that  I'm  raisin'  to  take  care  of  me 
in  my  old  age.  Yonder's  grandad." 

They  were  walking  in  single  file  up 
the  path  to  the  house.  An  old  man, 
spare,  bent,  and  full  of  lively  interest 
in  the  world  about  him,  came  out  to 
meet  them.  Behind  him,  her  sunbon- 
net  about  her  ears,  hobbled  granny. 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you,"  said 
grandad.  "  I've  been  expectin'  of  you 
ever  since  my  granddarter  Lissy  telled  me 
about  yer,  an'  yer  fine  fixin's  down  yan- 
der.  Lissy  she  sets  store  by  fine  fixin's, 
an  so  do  I ;  though  you  needn't  tell  the 
ole  woman.  Her  face  air  turned  heaven- 
ward ;  but  me  an'  Lissy  air  toler'ble  fond 
o' '  the  pomp  an'  glory,'  ain't  we,  darter  ? 
You-uns  air  valley-born,  my  granddarter 


The  Valley  Path  77 

tells  me,  —  come  from  the  town.  Well, 
I'm  mount'n,  me  an'  the  ole  woman. 
Born,  an'  lived,  an'  might  'a'  died  thar, 
but  for  the  'Piscopers.  When  they  took 
it  up  we-uns  stepped  down.  But  we're 
mount'n-born.  Lissy  an'  Al  air  valley ; 
tha'r  ma  was  a  valley  woman.  All  well 

>  3  » 

yo  way  r 

The  doctor  laughingly  told  him  that 
he  was  pretty  much  all  there  was  "  his 
way,"  except  the  servants,  the  stock, 
and  Zip.  "  The  rest  of  the  family," 
said  he,  "  enjoy  their  usual  good  health." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  miller. 
"  Glad  to  hear  it.  We-uns  don't  ap- 
pear ter  be  as  thrivin'  as  common.  Al 
thar  is  enjoying  mighty  poor  health  lately; 
he's  aguey,  threatened  o'  chills." 

"  Needs  quinine,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Come  to  see  me,  Al,  and  I  will 
give  you  a  tonic  that  will  set  you  up 
in  a  week." 

"  Hush,"  whispered  the  miller ;  "  don't 
let  the  ole  woman  hear  you.  She  don't 


78  The  Valley  Path 

believe  in  such  ;  she's  goin'  ter  live  an'  die 
by  yarbs,  an'  boneset  tea.  Thar  she  air 
now." 

A  wrinkled  old  crone  advanced  to  meet 
them,  peering  from  under  her  brown  sun- 
bonnet  at  the  visitor.  Her  eyes  were  sharp 
and  penetrating;  the  same  might  be  said 
of  her  voice. 

"You  air  the  mad  doctor,  I  reckin," 
she  sang  out  in  her  cracked  treble. 
"  Well,  we  air  all  hearty,  thank  the 
Lord.  Lissy,  run  an'  fetch  a  cheer  for 
the  mad  doctor.  Maybe  he  aims  to  set 
a  spell." 

He  "  set "  until  near  noon,  and  when 
he  left,  it  was  with  a  cordial  invitation 
to  "  come  again,"  and  "  to  be  neigh- 
bourly." 

Lissy  walked  down  to  the  gate  to  tell 
him  of  another  case  of  fever  that  had 
broken  out  in  the  village  of  Pelham. 
She  "wondered  if  there  could  be  any 
danger  of  its  making  its  appearance  at 
S'wanee." 


The  Valley  Path  79 

He  looked  up;  the  mist-wrapped  sum- 
mits frowned  defiance  to  scourge  in  any 
form ;  the  tall  tops  of  the  trees  swayed 
lightly  in  the  mountain  breeze,  itself  a 
tonic  to  keep  at  bay  the  malaria  of  the 
lowlands. 

"  Not  up  there,"  said  he.  "  The  fever 
could  not  live  a  day  up  there.  That  is 
God's  country." 

She  smiled ;  a  happy,  dancing  light 
played  among  the  deeps  of  her  earnest 
eyes. 

"It  air  good,"  she  said,  softly,  a  caress 
in  the  slow-spoken  words,  the  dialect  of 
her  grandparents,  into  which  she  some- 
times dropped  in  her  dreamful  moods. 
"  It  air  good  an'  healthy.  I  look  at  it 
sometimes  when  the  clouds  lie  low  upon 
it,  an'  I  can  only  make  out  the  windin's  o' 
the  little  footpath  step  by  step,  an'  it 
seems  to  me  like  the  hills  o'  Heavin ;  an' 
we  can  only  reach  the  top  of  it  step  by 
step,  ever'  day.  It  certainly  do  seem  like 
the  hills  of  Heavin,"  She  sighed  lightly, 


8o  The  Valley  Path 

and  rested,  her  chin  upon  her  hand,  her 
elbow  upon  the  gate,  her  gaze  fixed  upon 
the  misty  mountain  top.  "  Though,"  she 
added,  after  a  moment,  "  I  reckin  it'll  be  a 
mighty  long  time  befo'  I  find  the  hills  of 
Heavin  so  nigh  to  hand,  —  a  mighty  long 
time,  if  Brother  Barry  has  the  cuttin'  of 
my  weddin'  garmint.  Brother  Barry  al- 
lows I'm  give  over  bodaciously  to  the 
devil.  If,  says  I,  there  be  a  devil." 

The  last  sentence  was  uttered  in  a  whis- 
per, and  almost  lost  in  the  laugh  which 
accompanied  it ;  a  laugh  in  which  the 
doctor  joined  as  heartily  as  though  the 
girl  had  perpetrated  some  rich  joke,  rather 
than  scoffed  at  traditions  as  old  as  the  hills 
towering  above  the  cabin  in  which  she 
was  born.  Where,  he  wondered,  had  the 
old-fashioned  maiden  fallen  upon  the  new 
heresies  ? 

She  was  a  puzzle  to  him  ;  he  studied  the 
puzzle  seriously  as  he  tramped  home  by 
the  brown  footpath.  She  was  a  careless, 
happy  girl  one  moment ;  the  next  a  seri- 


The  Valley  Path  81 

cms,  earnest  woman.  She  could  not  be 
more  than  sixteen  years  of  age,  he  thought; 
she  was  at  the  turning,  the  crisis,  where 
girl  and  woman  meet.  Careful ;  careful ; 
oh,  how  a  hand  was  needed  to  shape  that 
beautiful  young  soul !  She  was  full  of 
doubts.  Life  itself  was  a  wonder,  a  riddle, 
to  her ;  it  was  so  beautiful,  so  fresh,  so 
mysterious.  Every  fibre  of  soul  and  body 
went  to  meet  it,  and  trembled  and  thrilled 
with  the  strangeness  and  the  sweetness  of 
it.  A  word,  a  hint,  would  fill  her  soul 
with  richness  ;  and  a  word  or  a  hint  would 
crush  her  peace  into  ruin  for  ever.  She 
would  make  a  grand  wife ;  but  she  was 
young  yet ;  sixteen. 

The  doctor  opened  his  door  softly,  and 
entered  his  bedroom.  Upon  the  old- 
fashioned  dresser  stood  a  small  square 
mirror,  with  his  shaving-case  lying  beside 
it.  He  lifted  the  mirror  and  carried  it  to 
the  window;  pushed  back  the  white  muslin 
curtain  and  made  a  careful  study  of  his 
face. 


82  The  Valley  Path 

"  White  hair,"  he  said,  "  may  stand 
for  trouble,  no  less  than  years.  Wrinkles 
may  index  sorrow  as  well  as  time.  And 
the  heart  doesn't  always  keep  pace  with 
the  body  in  its  race  for  the  grave.  Let 
me  see ;  let  me  see."  He  placed  the 
mirror  upon  the  window-sill,  and  stood 
looking  out,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
neck,  his  eyes  fixed  upon,  without  seeing, 
the  long  reddish  lane  that  led  to  Pelham. 
"  Forty,"  he  mused,  "  forty-five  and  six- 
teen. Sixteen  and  ten  are  twenty-six,  and 
ten  are  thirty-six,  and  nine  are  forty-five. 
Sixteen  from  forty-five  leaves  twenty-nine. 
It  is  f  a  gap,'  as  she  said  of  the  three  be- 
tween her  brother  and  herself.  Yet  "  — 

A  softness  stole  into  the  calm  blue  eyes ; 
a  smile  of  rare  content  parted  his  lips. 
Had  he  at  last  found  happiness  ?  That 
will  o'  the  wisp  so  many  have  chased  in 
vain,  had  it  come  to  him  in  a  cabin  under 
the  shadow  of  the  mountains  ?  Truth, 
freshness,  innocence,  youth ;  what  else 
could  happiness  offer  ?  And  to  say  noth- 


The  Valley  Path  83 

ing  of  the  possibilities,  the  hidden  aspira- 
tions, and  the  unsuspected  strength  that 
were  all  to  be  developed.  Life  turned  its 
rose  again  to  eyes  that  had  looked  upon 
its  sombre  side.  Hers  was  a  nature  easily 
moved ;  hers  a  heart  ripe  for  impressions ; 
her  soul  one  that  thirsted  for  truth,  the 
truth.  How  he  would  love  to  have  the 
fashioning  of  that  character,  the  guiding 
of  the  elastic  young  will.  It  would  be  a 
sweet  task,  —  a  very  pleasant  task  indeed. 
He  was  half  tempted  — 

He  thought  of  his  friends  at  home ; 
what  would  they  say  ?  Why,  that  he  was 
mad,  stark.  But,  he  reasoned,  it  was 
none  of  their  affair.  He  proposed  to 
live  his  own  life,  in  his  own  way,  and  after 
his  own  best  interest,  as  he  saw  it.  A 
strain  of  an  old  poem  drifted  through  his 
thoughts, — a  little  old  song  of  Browning's. 
Something  had  set  it  jingling  in  his  heart. 
He  repeated  it  softly,  under  his  breath, 
the  quiet  melancholy  of  his  voice  lending 
a  charm  to  the  poet's  thought : 


84  The  Valley  Path 

"  The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 
Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew ; 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 
And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 
We  were  fellow  mortals,  naught  beside  ? " 

He  was  fond  of  Browning,  who  threw 
off  the  conventionalities,  broke  out  of  the 
traces,  so  to  speak,  and  spoke  his  thought 
in  his  own  brave  way.  The  poet  re- 
minded him  of  a  fiery  horse  which,  refus- 
ing the  bit,  and  spurning  alike  both 
chicanery  and  caress,  dies  a  wild,  free 
thing  at  last,  his  great  spirit  breathed 
upon  and  breathing  in  the  untamed  chil- 
dren he  has  sired.  Doctor  Boring  was 
fond  of  those  untamed  children  of  the 
poet's  brain,  and  especially  fond  of  Evelyn 
Hope.  And  —  was  he  fond  of  Alicia, 
that  he  called  her  "  Evelyn  "  in  that  low, 
soft  voice  of  his  ? 

Love  is  God's  great  comforter ;  pain's 
one  consolation ;  the  compensation  of  all 
sacrifice ;  the  hope  that  separates  earth 


The  Valley  Path  85 

from  hell ;  the  tie  that  unites  it  with 
heaven.  It  is  the  memory  of  Eden  that 
softens  the  agony  of  Gethsemane ;  it  is 
wiser  than  Wisdom,  richer  than  Wealth, 
bolder  than  Courage,  stronger  than  Death. 
By  a  touch  it  can  open  the  gates  of 
heaven,  and  with  a  breath  extinguish  the 
fires  of  torment ;  it  can  pave  the  path  to 
Paradise  with  rarest  gold,  —  even  though 
that  path  lie  through  the  sloughs  of  degra- 
dation itself.  It  speaks  to  the  outcast,  and 
Hope  is  born ;  it  nestles  in  the  bosom 
of  Despair,  and  lo  !  the  fires  of  Faith  leap 
to  life  again ;  it  grasps  the  hand  of  Deso- 
lation, and  Heaven  descends.  Only  Love 
is  great  enough  for  the  great  tragedy  — 
Life. 


Chapter  VI 

DOWN  the  road  to  Pelham  a  little 
cloud  of  dust  arose.  It  came 
nearer ;  the  eyes  that  had  been  feasting 
upon  visions  came  back  to  earth,  to  see 
the  familiar  yellow  mule,  that  had  trotted 
his  first  patient  thither,  again  stop  at  the 
gate.  The  doctor  slipped  into  his  purple 
gown  and  went  out  to  meet  his  visitor, 
half  wondering  what  manner  of  prank  he 
would  attempt  this  time.  But  the  man 
was  clothed,  even  to  the  afflicted  foot,  and 
evidently  "  in  his  right  mind." 

There  was  something  artistic  about  him ; 
to  the  very  swing  of  his  body  swaying 
gracefully  with  the  movements  of  the 
mule.  He  was  clad  in  his  Sunday  best, 
—  a  coarse,  clean  shirt  and  a  suit  of  gray 
jeans.  The  inevitable  slouch  adorned  his 
head ;  pushed  back,  it  made  a  kind  of 

86 


The  Valley  Path  87 

setting  for  the  short,  clinging  curls.  Be- 
neath the  hat  was  a  face,  behind  which 
was  hidden  a  brain  that  would  work  out 
its  own  problems  and  stand  or  fall  by  its 
own  blunders. 

The  doctor  saw  beneath  the  careless 
bravado  with  which  his  visitor  swung  him- 
self down  from  the  mule's  back  and  came 
up  the  walk  to  meet  him.  The  large  foot 
touched  the  ground  with  positiveness,  as 
if  every  step  took  hold  upon  the  solid 
earth.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
physician  ;  evidently  he  was  not  altogether 
confident  as  to  his  reception ;  but  there 
was  that  in  his  manner  which  said  he 
meant  to  make  the  best  of  things  at  all 
events. 

"  Mornin',  doctor,"  he  said  in  response 
to  the  physician's  cordial  greeting.  "  I've 
come  over  here,  Doctor  Borin',  to  pay 
you  a  little  visit.  I'm  Joe  Bowen,  from 
Pelham  Valley  down  yonder." 

The  doctor  eyed  him  carefully ;  it 
was  equally  clear  to  each  that  the  other 


88  The  Valley  Path 

could  scarcely  refrain  from  bursting  into 
laughter. 

"  Any  more  erysipelas  down  your  way, 
Mr.  Bowen  ?  "  inquired  the  doctor. 

"  Oh !  say  now,  Doctor  Bonn',"  said 
the  mountaineer,  "  you  mustn't  be  holdin' 
a  grudge  ag'inst  me  'count  of  that  little 
joke.  I'm  outright  'shamed  of  myself 
about  that.  Besides,  I  was  only  aimin' 
to  plague  you  a  bit  —  you  an*  Lissy 
Reams.  Lissy  she  ware  braggin'  about 
you  that  peart  I  was  afeard,  betwixt  you, 
you  might  git  a  mortgage  on  the  earth ; 
let  alone  Georgy.  An'  Lissy  she  talked 
so  much  that  I  laid  a  bet  with  her  as  you 
couldn't  tell  snake  bite  from  yaller  ja'ndice. 
So  when  the  hornet  stung  me  that  mornin', 
while  I  was  hunt'n'  the  house  over  for  my 
boot  the  coon  had  carried  off,  why  I  —  " 
He  broke  into  laughter  in  which  the 
doctor  was  forced  to  join.  "It  was  too 
comical ;  it  was  too  damned  funny  for 
anything,  —  ter  see  you  nosin'  aroun'  an' 
specticlin'  over  that  toe,  an'  tappin'  of  it 


The  Valley  Path  89 

like  it  might  'a'  been  a  sp'iled  aig,  an' 
allowin'  you  '  gentlemen  of  the  medical 
persuasion'  —  ware  it  persuasion  ?  or  ware 
it  performance? —  Anyhow,  you  smart 
Ikes  called  it  *  erysip'las.'" 

The  mimicry  was  so  ludicrously  perfect 
the  doctor  could  not  speak  for  laughing. 
The  visitor,  too,  was  enjoying  the  recital 
of  his  smartness,  to  the  utmost ;  he  had 
enjoyed  it  before,  a  score  of  times  and 
more. 

"And  blame  my  hide,"  he  continued, 
"  if  that  ain't  about  as  nigh  the  truth  as 
most  of  yer  guesses  come.  But  let  that 
pass.  I've  come  over  frien'ly,  an'  I  hope 
you  ain't  holdin'  no  grudge  ag'inst  me, 
doctor." 

The  physician  slipped  his  arm  through 
the  arm  of  his  visitor  and  led  him  into 
the  house.  Grudge?  He  was  at  peace 
with  all  the  world ;  he  had  discovered  the 
secret  of  content ;  he  had  awakened  to 
new  life,  new  joy,  new  hope,  "  in  his  old 
age." 


90  The  Valley  Path 

"  Grudge  !  "  said  he,  "  grudge,  hell !  It 
was  a  sharp  trick  you  played  me,  young 
man.  But  I  shall  not  refuse  to  see  the 
fun  in  it  because  the  joke  turned  upon 
me.  Come  right  into  my  den ;  there  are 
the  pipes  on  the  mantel,  and  there  is  a 
chair  for  you.  The  occupant  of  that  old 
sofa  to  your  left  is  my  chum,  Zip.  Zip 
and  I  are  old  friends.  Fill  your  pipe ; 
all  mountaineers  smoke.  Most  of  them 
drink;  if  you  are  ready  for  a  toddy  I'll 
mix  one  for  you." 

"  I  don't  drink  liquor,"  said  Joe,  "  but 
I'll  take  a  turn  at  the  pipe.  An'  I'm 
proper  proud  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  yer  friend  here." 

He  gave  the  terrier's  ear  a  playful 
twitch  that  brought  him  to  his  feet  and 
then  to  the  floor,  where  he  stood  regard- 
ing the  visitor  in  an  inquiring  way,  which 
sent  that  worthy  off  in  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  Peart  pup,  to  be  sure,"  he  said ;  and, 
as  if  the  flattery  had  indeed  gone  home,  the 
little  terrier  curled  himself  at  the  feet  of 


The  Valley  Path  91 

his  new  admirer  and  went  to  sleep.  "  No, 
sir,"  Joe  went  back  to  the  previous  ques- 
tion, "  I  don't  drink  liquor :  I  can't ;  it 
makes  a  fool  of  me.  A  man's  an  idiot 
to  do  that  as  makes  a  fool  of  him,  an'  be- 
knownst  to  hisse'f,  too.  But,"  he  added, 
with  sudden  thought,  "  I  ain't  got  nothin' 
to  say  of  them  that  do  drink." 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  doctor,  smiling, 
while  he  pressed  the  brown  tobacco  into 
the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  "  I  abstain  for  the 
same  reason  that  you  do;  it  makes  a  fool 
of  me;  I  have  no  wish  to  be  a  greater 
fool  than  nature  made  me." 

The  mountaineer  reached  one  long  calf- 
skin boot  to  touch  the  tail  of  the  sleeping 
terrier : 

"  Oh,  say  now !  I  thought  you  ware 
the  salt  of  the  earth  for  smartness.  Lissy 
Reams  thinks  you  air,  anyhows." 

A  smile  flitted  for  a  moment  about  the 
doctor's  lips : 

"  Does  she  ?  "  said  he,  softly.  "  She  is 
a  smart  guesser." 


92  The  Valley  Path 

"  Does  she  ?  Why,  from  the  way  Lissy 
talks  I  allowed  you  an'  her  would  in  an' 
about  make  a  cha'ity  hospital  of  the  whole 
valley  bimeby.  Why,  Lissy  says  the  yarb 
doctor  ain't  nowhar;  that  you  have  got 
medicine  that'll  raise  the  dead  out  o'  their 
graves  —  if  the  dead  could  be  induced  to 
swallow  it." 

The  doctor  gathered  himself  to  resent 
the  sudden  turn  the  compliment  had 
taken,  reconsidered,  however,  drew  in 
his  breath  and  said,  "  T'he  dickens !  " 

The  mountaineer's  eyes  twinkled :  "  But 
then,"  he  continued,  "  thar  air  some 
who  say  you  air  nothin'  better  nor  a 
blamed  fool,  as  never  so  much  as  heard 
of  heavin." 

He  was  looking  straight  into  the  doc- 
tor's eyes ;  the  smoking  pipe  rested,  the 
bowl  in  the  palm  of  the  broad  brown  hand. 
His  face  was  aglow  with  the  amusement 
felt  in  reciting  the  opinions  of  his  neigh- 
bours :  amusement  he  saw  reflected  in  the 
face  of  his  listener,  who  again  took  breath 


The  Valley  Path  93 

and  gave  expression  to  a  low,  half  humor- 
ous, "  Hell ! " 

The  mountaineer  brought  his  foot  down 
upon  the  floor  with  sudden  vehemence : 

"  Say,  doctor,"  he  began,  "  you  have 
heard  o'  one  place,  if  you  haven't  heard 
o'  t'other.  The  valley  'round  here,  an' 
the  mount'n  too,  fur  that  matter,  allows 
that  I  be  the  biggest  sinner  in  the  State  o' 
Tennessee,  or  even  Georgy  hitse'f.  But 
if  you  ain't  toler'ble  close  behin'  me  then 
I  ain't  no  Solerman.  Why,  they  say  you 
never  heard  o'  Christ !  " 

The  reply  was  low,  earnest,  and  fraught 
with  meaning : 

"  Then,"  said  the  physician,  "  they  lie." 

"  Waal,  now,"  —  the  mountaineer  leaned 
upon  the  arm  of  his  chair,  his  face  close 
to  the  doctor's.  The  keen  eye  of  the 
physician  detected  a  fearless  interest,  an 
interest  that  was  not  assumed,  under  the 
careless,  half-merry  air  with  which  he  de- 
manded, "  What  do  you  think  of  Him, 
anyhow  ? " 


94  The  Valley  Path 

The  doctor  removed  his  pipe  from  be- 
tween his  lips,  tapped  the  bowl  of  it  gently 
upon  his  palm  —  the  tobacco  had  ceased 
to  smoke  in  the  mountaineer's  pipe  —  and 
set  it  upon  the  hearth,  propped  against  the 
brass  andiron,  useless  now  save  for  orna- 
ment. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  slowly,  locking  his 
white  fingers  loosely  upon  his  knee,  and 
speaking  in  the  quiet  tone  one  uncon- 
sciously adopts  when  talking  of  the  gen- 
tle Nazarene,  "  I  think  He  is  my  elder 
brother  —  and  yours." 

"  Great  God ! "  the  boy  literally  bounded ; 
he  gained  his  feet  as  if  an  electric  shock  had 
set  him  upon  them.  He  stood  perfectly 
still  one  moment,  then  gave  his  slouch 
a  shove  backward ;  shook  first  one  leg, 
then  the  other,  gave  the  terrier  a  kick 
with  his  calf-clad  foot  that  sent  it  yelping 
from  the  room ;  then  he  began  pacing  up 
and  down,  pulling  at  the  fireless  pipe  in 
long,  deep  breaths,  never  conscious  that  no 
wreath  of  smoke  responded  to  his  drawing. 


The  Valley  Path  95 

Finally  he  stopped,  looking  down  at  the 
placid  face  of  the  man  quietly  twirling  his 
thumbs,  who  had  let  drop  that  rank  heresy 
as  calmly  as  though  he  had  expressed 
himself  concerning  a  rise  in  Elk  River. 

"  You  mean  to  live  here"  he  demanded, 
"  an'  preach  that  gospil  ?  Here  under  the 
very  nose  of  Brother  Barry  an'  the  Epis- 
copers  ?  An'  you  expect  to  come  out  of 
it  whole  ? — hide,  horns,  and  taller  ?  Great 
God !  You'll  find  the  valley  hotter'n 
hell.  You'd  as  well  try  to  crack  Cum'- 
land  mount'n  wide  op'n,  as  to  try  to  crack 
the'r  skulls  wide  enough  to  let  in  that 
doctrine  ! " 

"  I  shall  not  try  it,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  came  here  to  get  away  from  creeds 
and  churches,  not  to  build,  or  to  intro- 
duce new  ones.  I  shall  ask  no  man  to 
think  as  I  think.  I  shall  neither  question 
nor  disturb  any  man's  right  to  his  own 
belief,  and  I  shall  claim  the  privilege  of 
thinking  for  myself  as  well." 

His  visitor  regarded  him  a  moment  in  a 


96  The  Valley  Path 

kind  of  wonder,  not  without  a  touch  of 
admiration.  Then  he  extended  his  strong, 
brown  hand,  palm  up.  "Put  yours  thar," 
he  exclaimed.  "  You  have  got  spunk  as 
well  as  spare-rib.  Blamed  if  you  haven't! 
Dad  burn  my  hide  if  I  don't  jist  admire 
the  fellow  that  is  too  smart  for  Brother 
Barry.  But,  Lord,  you  don't  know  him!  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  laughed  the  doctor.  "He 
called  upon  me  one  day  last  week,  and  the 
week  before,  and  the  week  before  that." 

"  Did  he  ?  Come  in  a  mighty  big 
hurry,  I  reckin ;  hitched  that  freckled- 
faced  nag  to  yo'  best  apple-tree,  /'//  be 
bound.  Was  in  a  mighty  hurry  an'  flus- 
ter fixin'  of  the  c  Master's  bus'ness;'  but 
made  out  to  let  you  put  up  his  nag  an' 
prevail  upon  him  to  stay  all  night.  Oh, 
I  know  Brother  Barry.  He's  too  durned 
lazy  for  man's  work,  so  he  tuk  to  preach- 
in'.  An'  the  way  he  can  preach,  while  the 
brethern  lay  to  an'  break  up  his  fiel'  for 
him,  to  keep  his  family  from  starvin' !  I 
went  over  and  plowed  his  gyarden  for  him 


The  Valley  Path  97 

las'  spring ;  I  done  it  to  pleasure  Lissy, 
more'n  anything  else.  An'  when  I  was 
in  an'  about  finished,  parson  he  come  out 
an'  threated  me  with  hell  fire  if  I  didn't 
get  religion  an'  jine  his  church.  You 
know  what  I  done,  Doctor  Borin'?" 

He  stopped,  lifted  one  calfskin  and 
deposited  it  squarely  upon  the  velvet 
cushion  of  the  easy  chair  he  had  in  his 
excitement  vacated,  and  stood  thus,  lean- 
ing forward,  his  arm  resting  upon  his 
knee,  his  face  aglow  with  enjoyment  of  the 
discomfiture  of  the  minister.  "  I  reckin  I 
am  an  awful  sinner,"  he  said;  "the  worst 
this  side  o'  torment  —  thout'n  it  be  you. 
When  Brother  Barry  thanked  me  with  his 
slap-jaw  talk,  I  just  got  aboard  o'  my  yal- 
ler  mule,  an'  I  says  to  that  holy  man, 
says  I :  c  Nex'  time  you  wants  yo'  cussed 
fiel'  broke  up  do  you  call  on  yo'  fr'en'  the 
devil  to  fetch  out  his  spade  an'  shovel  — 
I  have  heard  he's  got  one  —  an  ax  him  to 
break  it  up  for  you.  An'  if,'  says  I,  f  if 
you  ever  come  givin'  o'  me  any  mo'  of 


98  The  Valley  Path 

yo'  jaw  I'll  break  yer  darned  neck,'  says 
I.  I  ain't  heard  from  mealy-mouth  since 
then.  I  ain't  lookin'  for  thanks,  Doctor 
Bonn'"  (he  brought  his  foot  to  the  floor 
again),  "  an'  I  ain't  begrudgin'  nobody  a 
little  measly  day's  work  at  the  plow.  But 
I  deny  a  man's  right  to  drive  a  man,  even 
into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  I  don't  be- 
lieve he'd  stay  druv  after  he  ware  druv ; 
sech  ain't  man  natur' — leastwise  it  ain't 
my  natur'.  Nothing  won't  be  druv,  if 
it's  half  sensed.  My  grandad  druv  a 
drove  o'  horses  through  this  valley  oncet, 
long  ago.  An'  the  last  critter  of  'em  got 
back  again  whar  they  ware  druv  from. 
Well,  after  the  cussin'  I  give  him,  I 
reckin  he'll  let  me  sa'nter  on  to  ol' 
Satan  at  my  own  gait.  I  did  cuss 
him ;  I  have  that  to  remember.  I 
may  die  sometime  an'  go  to  the  devil, 
but  I  have  got  the  satisfaction  of  knowin' 
I  did  perform  one  good  deed  in  the  flesh 
anyhows." 

"  What  did  Lissy  say  to  that  ? " 


The  Valley  Path  99 

"Lissy?"  He  hesitated,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his 
yellow  hair. 

"Yes,  Lissy,  what  did  she  think  of 
your  performance — your  one  good  deed?" 

A  softness  crept  into  the  fearless  eyes, 
lowered  now  beneath  the  penetrating  gaze 
of  the  physician. 

"  Doctor  Borin',"  he  shifted  one  great 
foot  nervously,  "  I  tell  you,  Lissy  Reams 
air  a  good  gal." 

"Yes,  I  know  that.  That's  why  I 
want  to  know  how  she  received  your 
reckless  onslaught  upon  the  church." 

There  was  a  moment's  embarrassing 
silence.  The  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
the  half-past  twelve ;  the  keen  eyes  of  the 
physician  were  watching  every  change  in 
the  face  before  him.  The  mountaineer  re- 
sumed his  seat,  awkwardly,  and  began  tug- 
ging, with  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  at 
the  strap  of  his  long  boot.  The  doctor 
sighed  and  withdrew  his  gaze;  he  was 
satisfied  with  that  he  had  discovered. 


ioo  The  Valley  Path 

"  Hit's  a  pity,"  speech  had  come  at 
last,  since  those  searching  eyes  were  no 
longer  upon  him,  "  hit's  a  pity  for  Lissy 
to  be  made  a  mealy-mouth  of.  She's  a 
gal  o'  good  sense.  She  ain't  got  her  own 
consent  to  jine  the  church  yit,  an'  I  most 
hope  she  won't  git  it.  Lissy  is  a  quare 
gal,  an'  if  she  once  takes  a  stand  for  the 
Methodis',  thar  ain't  no  tellin'  whar  it'll 
end,  nor  what  sort  o'  fool  notions  she'll 
take  into  her  head.  She's  toler'ble  heady 
for  a  sensible  gal,  sometimes.  I  air  goin' 
to  marry  Lissy  Reams,  Doctor  Borin' — " 

Now  it  was  his  turn  to  look  into  the 
doctor's  eyes ;  quick  as  a  flash  they  fell. 
If  the  mountaineer  saw  anything,  if  there 
was  anything  to  see,  he  gave  no  sign.  "I'm 
goin'  to  marry  Lissy,  as  soon  as  little  Al's 
big  enough  to  make  a  livin'  for  the  ol' 
folks.  I  have  got  a  good  place  t'other 
side  o'  Pelham.  I  can  keep  Lissy  real 
comf't'ble.  Al's  fo'teen,  goin'  on  fifteen; 
Lissy's  turned  seventeen  an'  pritty  as  a 
pictur'." 


The  Valley  Path  101 

Before  the  doctor  could  frame  a  reply 
old  Dike  put  her  head  in  to  say  that  din- 
ner was  ready — "raidy  an'  wait'n'." 

It  was  always  "ready  and  waiting"  if 
once  old  Dike  got  it  on  the  table.  The 
two  men  rose ;  the  doctor  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  arm  of  his  guest : 

"You  are  coming  out  to  dinner  with 
me,"  he  said. 

But  the  mountaineer  shook  his  head: 

"  That's  percisely  what  I  ain't,"  he  de- 
clared. "  I'm  not  Brother  Barry  by  a 
long  sally.  I'm  goin'  home.  An'  when 
you  ain't  got  nothin'  better  to  do,  Doctor 
Borin',  you  come  over  to  Pelham  Valley; 
you  can  come  the  big  road  or  you  can 
keep  the  path  all  the  way,  an'  see  how  a 
God-forsaken  sinner  manages  to  keep  his 
head  above  water  an'  starvation.  You'll 
find  a  pretty  lay  o'  land  an'  a  pleasant 
pasture,  with  the  creek  a-caperin'  through 
it  as  frisky  as  it  capers  for  the  biggest 
Methodis'  in  the  State.  An'  I  gits  a 
shower,  Doctor  Borin',  every  blessed 


102  The  Valley  Path 

time  my  church  neighbours  gits  one. 
An'  if  thar's  a  stint  o'  sunshine  in  fa- 
vour o'  they-uns  it  didn't  make  itse'f 
felt  last  July.  You  come  over  an' 
see." 

"  Will  you  send  me  off  with  dinner  on 
the  table  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

The  visitor  hesitated,  stared,  seemed  to 
catch  a  sudden  idea,  wheeled  about,  and, 
tossing  his  hat  into  a  corner,  said : 

"  Lead  the  way.  Though  God  knows 
I  do  feel  mightily  like  a  Methodis'." 

It  was  sunset  when  the  yellow  mule 
trotted  leisurely  down  the  road  to  Pelham. 
The  physician  stood  at  the  gate,  watching 
the  big  slouch  bob  up  and  down  with  the 
motion  of  the  animal.  When  it  disap- 
peared in  a  strip  of  black  gum  woods,  he 
placed  his  hand  upon  the  gate  latch,  hesi- 
tated, dropped  it,  and  turned  back  slowly 
to  the  house. 

He  had  thought  of  walking  down  to 
Lissy's  in  the  dusky  twilight.  Instead, 
he  went  to  a  little  rustic  bench  under  a 


The  Valley  Path  103 

giant  beech,  and  sat  there,  lost  in  thought, 
until  Aunt  Dike  called  him  in  to  supper. 
He  rose  slowly,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him,  and  went  in. 

The  lamps  had  been  lighted,  and,  as  he 
stopped  a  moment  in  his  sitting-room  to 
make  some  slight  change  in  his  clothing, 
his  eye  fell  upon  the  dusty  imprint  of  a 
gigantic  foot  upon  the  velvet  cushion  of 
his  easy  chair. 

He  smiled  and  sighed  with  the  same 
breath.  Was  he  the  thoroughly  honest 
fellow  he  appeared,  this  young  guest  of 
his  ?  It  was  odd  :  the  visit,  the  unsought 
confidence,  the  breaking  of  bread  in  neigh- 
bourly way.  He  had  an  idea  the  man  had 
designed  to  put  him  on  honour  not  to 
interfere,  so  far  as  Alicia  Reams  might 
be  concerned,  in  his  love  affair. 

He  sighed  again,  and  passed  his  hand 
over  his  brow  as  though  to  remove  a  veil 
that  had  fallen  across  his  vision.  His 
dream  had  been  fast  dispelled ;  life  had 
put  on  her  gloom  again.  And  that  when 


104  The  Valley  Path 

he  had  but  just  strangled  all  doubt,  faced 
and  overcome  all  fear, — just  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  about  to  be  happy. 
The  golden  apple  had  yielded  bitter  with 
the  very  first  taste. 


Chapter  VII 

SUMMER  drifted  dreamily;  the  val- 
ley    budded    and     blossomed,    and 
brought  forth  its  treasures  of  harvest. 

Alicia's  peas  "  fulled  "  almost  to  burst- 
ing in  their  pale  pods,  and  the  shrivelled 
vines  were  torn  away  to  make  room  for  a 
turnip  patch,  in  order  that  "spring greens" 
might  not  be  lacking  when  the  season  for 
them  should  come  again.  Still  the  physi- 
cian tarried.  Autumn,  with  its  variant 
winds  and  restful  skies,  breathed  upon 
field  and  flood;  the  water  sank  low  in  the 
Elk's  bed,  and  the  rebellious  creek  crooned 
the  old,  old  slumber  song  of  October;  the 
wild  grape  hung  in  dusky  bunches  from 
the  vine-crowned  trees ;  the  stealthy  fox 
prowled  along  the  river  bluffs  that  were 
rich  with  the  odour  of  the  ripening  mus- 
cadine; the  mountaineer  fed  upon  the 


io6  The  Valley  Path 

opossum  that  had  fattened  upon  the  new 
persimmons.  And  still  the  doctor  let  fall 
no  hint  of  returning  to  the  city. 

Autumn  gave  place  to  winter;  the 
water  rose  in  the  river  channel,  and  the 
foot  log  went  scurrying  off  with  the  swoll- 
en waters  of  Pelham  Creek.  The  birds 
gathered  in  little  frightened  groups,  made 
out  a  hasty  route,  and  went  south  on 
very  short  notice.  Only  a  dilapidated 
crow  might  be  heard  now  and  then,  mo- 
notonously cawing  from  the  tops  of  a 
denuded  sycamore-tree.  There  was  an 
occasional  dropping  of  dry  nuts  from  the 
limbs  where  they  had  clung  all  summer, 
seeking  the  moist  brown  earth  to  wait  un- 
til —  Ah  !  who  knows  when,  how,  what 
shall  rise  again  ? 

At  last  the  snow  came ;  little  drowsy 
dribbles  that  frosted  the  hills  and  put  a 
crisp  in  the  air.  And  still  the  good  man 
lingered. 

"Why  should  I  go?"  he  asked  him- 
self. "  I  am  contented  here ;  am  doing  a 


The  Valley  Path  107 

little  good,  maybe,  among  the  people 
here." 

He  scarcely  knew  himself  that  Alicia 
had  anything  to  do  with  his  staying ; 
he  scarcely  understood  just  how  he  felt 
towards  her. 

He  saw  her  almost  every  day  ;  if  she 
failed  to  call,  he  hailed  her  when  she 
passed,  taking  the  nearer  cut,  the  foot- 
path way  to  Sewanee.  For  in  winter,  also, 
Alicia  found  something  with  which  to 
tempt  the  appetites  of  the  "  Episcopers." 

As  for  the  doctor,  his  cheery  call  at  the 
miller's  gate  had  become  as  familiar  as  the 
click-clack  of  the  mill  itself.  And  so  fre- 
quent were  his  demands  for  "  more  eggs  " 
that  granny  fell  to  wondering  "  if  the  mad 
doctor  ware  a-feedin'  of  his  cows  an'  horses 
on  Lissy's  hens'  aigs." 

It  was  one  afternoon  in  November  that 
he  returned  from  a  visit  to  a  sick  man 
down  the  valley.  He  was  tired  ;  his  very 
eyes  ached  with  wind  that  had  cut  him 
unmercifully  as  he  rode  home  in  the  teeth 


io8  The  Valley  Path 

of  it.  He  drew  off  his  boots,  stretched 
his  chilled  feet  a  moment  before  the  fire, 
and  thrust  them  into  a  pair  of  felt  slippers 
with  a  sense  of  quiet  rejoicing  that  he  was 
home  ahead  of  the  snow  cloud  gathering 
over  the  mountain.  The  fire  had  never 
felt  so  good.  Even  Zip,  as  he  curled  up 
at  his  feet,  his  small  head  cuddled  against 
the  brown  felt  shoe,  assumed  vaguely  the 
semblance  of  a  friend. 

He  had  scarcely  had  his  first  yawn  when 
Dike  put  her  head  in  to  say  : 

"  Marster,  dey's  a  'oman  sick  up  dar  on 
de  mount'n  road  a  piece :  mighty  sick ; 
en  ole  Mis'  Reamses  granddaughter  wuz 
down  here  after  you  whilst  you  wuz  gone. 
En  she  say  she  ud  tek  it  mighty  kin'  eft 
you'ud  step  up  dar  en  see  de  'oman  what's 
sick.  She  say  eft  you  could  come  dis 
ebenin'  she  ud  be  mighty  obleeged  ter 
yer.  But  I  tol'  her  you  wan'  gwine  do 
no  sich  thing,  not  in  dis  col'  en  win'." 

He  tossed  off  his  slippers  but  a  moment 
before  put  on,  and,  pointing  to  his  boots 


The  Valley  Path  109 

still  lying  where  he  had  but  just  left  them, 
said : 

"  Who  is  the  sick  woman  ?  Did  Lissy 
leave  no  name  ?  " 

"  Naw,  sir.  I  axed  fur  the  entitlements, 
but  she  didn't  look  lack  she  cud  make  out 
what  dey  wuz." 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  suppose  not ; 
hand  me  my  shoes,  you  villainous  mur- 
derer of  the  king's  English.  Now  tell 
me  what  the  girl  did  say.  You  don't  ex- 
pect me  to  go  tramping  up  the  mountain 
into  the  clouds,  with  nothing  nearer  than 
the  stars  for  a  sign-post,  do  you  ? " 

"  She  say  hit's  de  fus'  house  on  de  road, 
after  you  tu'n  de  road  by  de  big  rock  what 
hangs  over  hit,  whar  de  S'wany  boys  hab 
painted  de  sun  risin'.  Mus'n'  I  git  yo' 
supper  fus'  fo'  you  goes  out  again  in  de 
col'  ?  "  she  asked,  seeing  him  look  about 
for  his  greatcoat.  "  I  kin  hab  it  on  de 
table  in  a  minute." 

"  No,"  he  said,  wearily,  "  wait  until  I 
get  back,  or  get  your  own,  and  keep  mine 


no  The  Valley  Path 

back  in  the  stove.  I  am  going  up  by 
way  of  the  foot-path,  but  you  may  give 
Ephraim  his  supper  and  then  send  him 
with  my  horse  around  by  the  road." 

"  Marster  ? " 

"Well  ?  " 

"  Hadn'  I  better  fix  up  a  bite  fur  yer 
ter  carry  up  dar  ?  Mis'  Reamses  daughter 
say  dat  de  sick  'oman's  folks  is  all  gone 
'way,  an'  she  wuz  'bliged  ter  g'long  back 
up  dar  ter  knock  her  up  somef'n  ter  eat. 
She  say  she  got  de  mis'ry  in  de  side, 
mighty  bad." 

"You  may  get  me  a  box  of  mustard, 
and  when  Ephraim  comes  send  a  basket 
of  provisions  up.  You  had  better  put  a 
bottle  of  blackberry  wine  in  the  basket, 
also.  And  tell  Ephraim  to  get  in  plenty 
of  wood ;  there  is  going  to  be  a  snow- 
storm." 

The  atmosphere  cleared,  however;  the 
snow  ceased  to  fall ;  and,  although  it  was 
nearing  the  hour  of  sunset  when  he  reached 
the  cabin  on  the  mountain's  side,  there  was 


The  Valley  Path  1 1 1 

a  deep,  half-sullen  glow  in  the  west  which 
brought  out  all  the  more  forcefully  the 
otherwise  cold  gray  of  the  heavens. 

He  found  the  sick  woman  to  be  old 
Mrs.  Tucker,  whom  he  had  met  at  the 
cabin  where  he  first  met  Alicia;  he  had 
bought  chickens  of  her  more  than  once 
since  then ;  and  her  son,  a  listless,  idle 
fellow  with  a  young  wife  and  a  baby,  had 
hauled  wood  for  the  physician  from  the 
forests  upon  the  mountain.  He  had  no 
idea  that  he  would  ever  be  paid  for  his 
services,  if  that  payment  depended  upon 
the  son.  There  was,  however,  something 
about  the  old  woman  herself,  hints  of 
those  peculiarly  strong  and  admirable 
characteristics  which  flash  upon  the  com- 
prehension with  startling  emphasis  at 
times,  that  had  inspired  him  with  faith 
as  well  as  respect. 

The  tumble-down  gate  swung  slightly 
ajar  upon  a  broken  hinge ;  a  tiny  line  of 
blue  smoke  was  ascending  from  the  low 
stack  chimney,  and  in  the  woods,  across 


H2  The  Valley  Path 

the  road,  a  young  girl  was  gathering 
brush. 

He  did  not  recognise  her  at  first  in  the 
half  light,  but  when  she  pushed  back  the 
shawl  pinned  about  her  head  and  came  to 
meet  him,  he  saw  that  it  was  Alicia. 

"  I'm  mighty  glad  you're  come,  Doctor 
Borin',"  she  said,  in  her  slow,  sweet  drawl. 
"  I  was  most  afraid  you  wouldn't,  because 
Aunt  Dike  said  you  were  off  to  see  some 
one  already.  Come  right  on  in ;  it's  old 
Mis'  Tucker  that's  sick,  and  her  folks  air 
all  off  visitin'  down  to  Pelham." 

She  was  trying  to  open  the  hanging 
gate  by  pushing  against  it  with  her  already 
burdened  arms.  The  doctor  put  her 
lightly  aside. 

"  Wait,  wait,  young  woman,"  said  he. 
"  Don't  monopolise  the  work,  I  beg.  Let 
me  open  the  gate,  or  else  carry  the  brush." 

It  scraped  along  the  frozen  ground  like 
a  thing  in  pain,  digging  a  long  furrow  in 
the  light  snow-crust  as  it  went. 

"  Her  folks  air  all  gone  off,"  Lissy  was 


The  Valley  Path  113 

telling  him  as  they  walked  towards  the 
cabin,  "  else  I  reckin  they  wouldn't  'a' 
let  me  send  for  you.  Jim  he's  mighty 
strong  for  the  herb  doctor,  an'  so  is  Lucy 
Ann ;  but  I  have  heard  Mis'  Tucker  pass- 
in'  compliments  over  you  so  many  times 
that  I  up  and  went  after  you  this  evenin' 
without  askin'  leave  of  nobody,  just  on 
the  strength  of  them  compliments." 

"  Much  obliged,  I'm  sure,"  said  the 
doctor,  "much  obliged  to  both  of  you." 

She  did  not  detect  the  jest  in  his  words, 
and  her  simple  "  You  are  welcome,"  as 
she  led  the  way  into  the  cabin,  was  as 
genuinely  sincere  as  it  was  quaintly 
simple. 

She  deposited  her  kindlings  in  the  shed- 
room,  and  returned  to  take  her  place  with 
him  at  the  bedside  of  old  Mrs.  Tucker. 

To  him  there  was  no  longer  anything 
odd  or  incongruous  in  her  being  there. 
He  had  found  her  so  often  among  the 
very  poor  and  the  suffering,  so  many 
times  had  they  been  thus  associated  to- 


H4  Tlle  Valley  Path 

gether,  that  it  seemed  as  much  her  proper 
place  as  it  was  his.  She  was  as  truly  a 
physician  to  them  as  he. 

"Had  she  been  a  poor  girl,  in  a  city, 
she  would  have  been  a  trained  nurse," 
was  his  thought ;  "  had  she  been  a  rich 
woman,  in  the  city,  she  would  have  been 
a  patron  of  hospitals,  with  the  afflicted 
indigent  for  a  hobby.  As  it  is,  she 
ought  to  be  a  doctor's  wife,"  and,  so 
saying,  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  gray 
hair. 

Old  Mrs.  Tucker,  however,  received 
more  of  Alicia's  attention  than  the  gen- 
eral sick.  The  two  had  been  real  friends 
since  Alicia,  a  little  girl  in  short  skirts, 
had  made  her  first  trip  to  Sewanee  behind 
Mrs.  Tucker  on  her  gray  mare.  She  had 
sold  a  mess  of  early  beans  that  day,  and 
with  Mrs.  Tucker's  help  had  purchased  a 
straw  hat  with  the  money.  It  was  the 
very  first  hat  she  had  ever  owned ;  but 
since  then  so  much  from  spring  and  fall 
vegetables  was  invested  in  a  hat.  The 


The  Valley  Path  115 

last  winter's  was  a  bright  red  felt,  which 
the  old  grandmother  declared  made  her 
look  for  all  the  world  like  an  overgrown 
woodpecker.  Mrs.  Tucker  liked  it,  how- 
ever, and  the  face  that  peeped  at  Lissy 
from  the  little  mirror  over  the  bureau 
that  had  been  her  mother's  was  such  a 
piquant,  pretty  face,  under  the  red  felt's 
brim,  that  she  had  worn  it,  in  defiance  of 
the  woodpecker  insinuation.  The  hat 
was  in  the  second  season  now,  but  still 
retained  its  bright  red  colour;  so  that 
when  Lissy  crammed  it  down  upon  her 
head  and  started  up  the  mountain  on  a 
clear  day  in  winter,  it  showed  like  a 
scarlet  flag  "  plumb  to  the  top  of  the 
mount'n,"  Mrs.  Tucker  was  wont  to 
declare. 

Alicia  seldom  passed  the  cabin  without 
stopping  to  ask  after  the  health  of  the 
family.  Thus  it  was  that  she  found  the 
old  woman  ill,  with  a  chill  upon  her,  and 
alone. 

"  She  was  right  glad   to  see  me,"  she 


n6  The  Valley  Path 

told  the  doctor,  while  she  stroked  the 
thin  black  hair  from  the  yellow  forehead. 
"  But  I  didn't  ask  her  if  I  might  send  for 
you,  Doctor  Borin'.  And  if  any  harm 
comes  of  it  the  fault's  all  mine — if  any 
harm  comes  to  Mis'  Tucker." 

The  doctor  caught  his  breath,  looking 
up  quickly  to  discover,  if  might  be  the 
insult  was  of  accident  or  intent. 

But  the  quiet  face  told  nothing ;  Alicia 
went  on  stroking  the  yellow  temples  as 
calmly  as  though  she  had  not  just  put 
the  physician  on  his  honour  to  play 
no  "  infedel  tricks,"  as  her  grandmother 
was  wont  to  call  his  practice,  upon  the 
patient  committed  to  his  care. 

Without  replying,  he  proceeded  to  ex- 
amine the  sufferer,  who  waked  and  rec- 
ognised him,  telling  him  that  she  was 
"much  obleeged  to  him  for  trompin' 
up  the  mount'n  ter  see  a  ole  woman 
die." 

"Nonsense,"  said  he.  "You  will  bring 
me  my  Christmas  turkey  ten  years  from 


The  Valley  Path  117 

now,  if  Lissy  will  swing  her  kettle  over 
the  fire,  and  get  some  hot  water  to  put 
your  feet  in.  Then  she  must  hunt  up 
a  saucer  in  which  to  mix  a  little  mustard, 
and  get  for  me  a  bit  of  soft  cotton  cloth. 
I  am  going  to  put  a  plaster  on  your 
side,  and  another  on  your  chest.  And 
I  am  going  to  give  you  a  little  powder 
out  of  this  case, —  it  is  called  quinine. 
Lissy?" 

She  turned  to  him  from  the  fire  where 
she  had  been  swinging  the  kettle  upon 
an  iron  hook  that  was  there  for  the 
purpose. 

"  Will  you  be  here  all  night  ? " 

"I  reckin  I'll  have  to  be,"  she  replied. 
"Though  some  one  ought  to  go  down  to 
Pelham  and  let  Lucy  Ann  and  Jim  know 
their  ma  is  sick.  I'll  be  obliged  to  run 
down  the  mount'n  and  feed  my  chickens 
first,  because  Al  wont  give  'em  enough, 
and  granny  plumb  forgets  all  about  'em. 
Then  I  can  come  back." 

She  sighed,  standing  with    her   hands 


u8  The  Valley  Path 

folded,  her  profile  against  the  blaze,  her 
fine,  clear-cut  face  and  figure  silhouetted 
against  the  firelight. 

"  It's  mighty  worrisome  to  know  some- 
thin'  is  left  to  your  care;  something  that 
can  feel,  and  suffer,  and  die;  though,"  she 
added,  with  a  smile,  "it  be  only  a  brood 
of  chickens." 

He  went  over  and  stood  by  her  side, 
looking  down  into  the  earnest  young  face 
lifted  to  his. 

"  What  if  the  (  something '  be  human 
life  ?  "  he  said,  softly  ;  "  what  if  it  rested 
in  your  hand  every  day,  almost  every 
hour  ?  What  would  you  think  of  such 
a  charge  as  that  ?  " 

Her  lids  dropped  for  a  moment ;  she 
hesitated,  then,  looking  at  him  with 
strangely  glowing  eyes,  said  : 

"  Oh,  it  must  be  grand^  grand,  to  help 
people  to  live,  —  to  know  how  to  give 
'em  back  their  life.  It  is  grand.  It  is 
like  God,  to  be  able  to  do  that.  To  give 
back  life,  and  to  help  people  to  live  their 


The  Valley  Path  119 

life  after  they  get  it ;  I'd  like  mightily 
to  be  able  to  do  that." 

Her  face  was  aglow  with  enthusiasm ; 
the  fine  lights  sparkled  in  her  eyes  like 
crystalline  fires. 

She  was  very  near  him,  her  hand  rest- 
ing upon  the  back  of  a  splint-bottomed 
chair  which  stood  between  them.  She 
leaned  forward,  resting  her  elbows  upon 
the  chair,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  He 
could  feel  her  soft  breath  upon  his  hand ; 
see  the  throbbing  of  her  white  throat ; 
and  the  pretty  bird-like  neck,  where  the 
waist  of  her  dark  dress  had  been  cut  back 
to  make  room  for  a  tiny  ruffle  of  white 
muslin.  He  saw  the  rise  and  fall  of  her 
bosom ;  her  gold-red  hair  brushed  his 
sleeve.  The  firelight  transfigured  her; 
the  dress  of  dark  stuff,  in  the  ruddy,  un- 
certain light,  became  softest  velvet;  the 
brooch  of  cheap  glass,  at  her  throat,  be- 
came a  glistening  gem  of  rarest  worth. 
The  fluffy  bright  waves  of  hair  that 
crowned  the  well-shaped  head  were  not 


120  The  Valley  Path 

for  the  rude  caresses  of  the  mountain 
stripling,  Joe  Bowen ;  they  were  his,  the 
treasured  tresses  of  his  love,  Alicia ;  his 
wife  that  might  be. 

His  wife  that  might  be  for  the  asking. 
He  knew  her  heart  had  not  wakened ;  all 
the  sweet  beauty  of  life's  richness  was 
still  there.  It  would  never  be  called  into 
being  by  Joe  Bowen.  The  girl  had  a 
soul ;  Bowen's  was  not  the  voice  that 
would  sound  its  quickening.  Yet  unless 
he  spoke  she  would  marry  him,  and  the 
great  richness,  the  wonderful  possibilities, 
would  be  lost,  all  lost. 

He  leaned  slightly  towards  her,  his 
hand  rested  upon  hers ;  he  felt  the 
slender,  flexible  fingers  close  about  his 
own. 

"  Alicia  ?  "  he  said,  softly. 

She  started,  and  withdrew  her  hand. 
He  knew  then  that  her  thoughts  had 
been  far  away. 

"Alicia,  how  would  you  like  to  help 
the  world  ?  in  what  manner,  I  mean  ? 


The  Valley  Path  121 

And  where  did  you  get  your  idea  of 
being  of  service  to  your  fellows  ?  " 

"  At  S'wany,"  she  replied.  "  I  was  up 
there  once  of  a  Sunday.  I  didn't  care 
much  for  the  robe  and  fixin's  of  the 
preacher  —  seemed  like  they  was  no  use. 
But  I  remembered  what  he  said.  He 
said  we  couldn't  all  be  rich  and  smart ;  no 
more  could  we  all  see  our  way  clear ;  but 
we  all  could  help  somebody  to  live  their 
life,  somebody  not  so  well  off  as  we  air.  He 
said  we  could  all  do  something  even  if  we 
couldn't  understand  God ;  and  He  would 
count  the  good  up  to  our  credit.  He  said 
we  could  make  our  fellow  men  our  religion, 
and  helpin'  of  them  our  creed.  I  got  that 
much  from  the  Episcopers,  and  I'm  tryin' 
to  live  up  to  it.  Doctor  Borin',  I  have 
thought  that  was  true  religion." 

"  It  will  do  to  steer  by,  I  suspect,"  he 
replied.  "  But  some  day  I  want  to  come 
over  to  your  house  and  plan  out  a  future 
for  you,  more  congenial  than  this  life  you 
have  laid  out  for  yourself." 


122  The  Valley  Path 

She  laughed  and  lifted  the  steaming 
kettle  from  the  hook  to  the  hearth.  Her 
next  words  were  foreign  to  his  suggestion. 

"  Doctor  Borin,'  if  you  could  stay  here 
a  bit  I  could  run  down  and  feed  my 
chickens,  and  get  back  in  no  time." 

Already  her  hand  was  extended  for  her 
shawl  hanging  upon  a  wooden  peg  just 
within  the  cabin  door. 

"  Child,"  said  the  doctor,  "  what  are 
you  made  of?  Rubber  or  whitleather  ? 
Talking  of  slipping  down  the  mountain 
as  though  you  were  a  couple  of  cast-iron 
springs,  and  had  only  to  snap  yourself  in 
place.  You  have  been  down  the  moun- 
tain once  to-day." 

She  laughed,  and  tossed  a  handful  of 
chips  in  the  fire,  from  the  basket  she  had 
filled  for  the  morning's  kindling. 

"  I  have  been  down  the  mountain 
twice t  to-day,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can  go 
again,  I  reckon.  And  I  don't  know  but 
I  ought  to  go  down  to  Pelham  and  tell 
Lucy  Ann." 


The  Valley  Path  123 

"  Well,  you'll  not  go  to  Pelham  this 
night,"  said  the  doctor.  "  My  horse  and 
boy  will  be  around  in  half  an  hour,  and, 
if  you  will  direct  him  to  the  house  where 
Lucy  Ann  is  stopping,  he  can  go  down 
there  and  tell  her  that  she  is  needed  here. 
You  may  go  and  feed  your  chickens,  if 
you  are  so  sure  nobody  can  perform  the 
service  to  your  satisfaction.  Has  Lucy 
Ann  any  way  of  getting  home  to-night  ?  " 

"  They  went  down  in  the  wagon,"  she 
replied.  "  Jim  he  had  a  load  of  straw  to 
fetch  up,  for  bed-makin'  and  hen  nests ; 
and  he  allowed  Lucy  Ann  and  the  baby 
could  ride  on  the  load  well  as  not." 

Half  an  hour  later  Ephraim  had  been 
sent  upon  his  mission,  and  Doctor  Boring 
saw  Alicia  cram  her  old  red  felt  down 
upon  her  head,  pin  her  shawl  securely 
about  her  shoulders,  and  run  down  the 
little  footpath  that  wound  past  his  own 
dwelling  to  hers,  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

It  was  scarcely   ten  minutes  until    he 


124  The  Valley  Path 

heard  her  voice  at  the  gate  again,  and 
through  the  curtainless  window  he  could 
distinguish  in  the  fading  light  the  slight, 
girlish  figure  leaning  upon  the  low  pal- 
ings, on  the  other  side  of  which  stood 
a  tall,  slender  youth,  whose  erect  car- 
riage, and  shock  of  yellow  hair  falling 
picturesquely  about  his  shoulders,  and 
surmounted  by  the  inevitable  slouch,  pro- 
claimed him  no  other  than  Joe  Bowen. 
His  head  drooped,  ever  so  slightly,  to 
meet  the  pretty  face  lifted  to  his.  She 
was  laying  down  instructions  of  some  kind, 
for  the  giant  nodded  now  and  then,  and 
her  pretty,  gurgling  laugh,  half  suppressed, 
in  consideration  of  the  sick  woman,  came 
to  the  ears  of  the  physician,  watching  and 
listening,  with  a  feeling  half  anger,  half 
annoyance,  in  his  heart,  until  the  confer- 
ence was  ended  and  Lissy  returned  to  her 
charge. 

"  Is  she  asleep  ? "  she  asked,  softly,  while 
she  laid  aside  her  things.  "I  met  Joe 
Bowen  yonder  where  the  path  forks,  and 


The  Valley  Path  125 

he  said  he'd  go  down  and  feed  the  chickens 
for  me.  Joe's  a  master  hand  at  chickens, 
though  he  is  a  sinner." 

She  laughed,  tucking  the  covers  more 
securely  about  the  feet  of  her  patient. 
Evidently  Joe's  sins  were  not  altogether 
unpardonable  to  her  partial  sense. 

"  But,"  she  added,  naively,  "  I  ain't  so 
mighty  good  myse'f  as  I  can  be  settin' 
myse'f  in  judgment  on  Joe.  I  ain't  a 
perfessor;  I  ain't  even  clear  in  my  mind 
that  I  believe  all  the  Methodists  say;  nor 
the  Episcopers  either,  for  that  matter.  I 
know  there  ain't  any  sense  in  all  that 
talkin'  back  at  the  parson  like  the  Epis- 
copers talk,  same  as  if  he  didn't  know 
what  he  was  sayin';  an'  there  ain't  any 
call  for  him  to  put  on  them  robe  fixin's 
as  I  can  see.  And  all  of  that  about  the 
dead  risin'  I  know  ain't  so.  For  Joe 
opened  an  Indian  grave  last  summer — 
there's  a  whole  graveyard  of  'em  over 
yonder  on  Duck  River — and  there  was 
the  Indian  dead  and  buried  same  as  ever. 


126  The  Valley  Path 

And  he  must  'a'  been  buried  a  hundred 
years  I  know.  Oh,"  —  she  paused;  a 
new  idea  had  come  to  her,  —  "mebby 
the  Indians  don't  count.  The  Book 
don't  say  anything  about  Indians,  and 
neither  does  Brother  Barry.  Air  you 
goin'?" 

"Yes,  I  must  get  down  the  mountain 
while  I  can  see  the  path.  I  am  not  as 
young  as  I  used  to  be." 

She  laughed  again,  and  toyed  with  the 
pewter  spoon  and  coarse  saucer  with  which 
he  had  prepared  the  mustard. 

"You  don't  appear  to  be  so  mighty 
old,  as  I  can  make  out,"  she  said. 

The  words  pleased  him.  Age  had 
never  been  unwelcome  to  him;  in  fact, 
he  had  scarcely  felt  that  it  had  really 
come  to  him,  until  he  crossed  paths 
with  this  pure  young  life.  Her  very 
next  words,  however,  served  to  dash 
the  little  sweet  with  bitter. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  remain  here  alone?" 
he  asked.  "If  you  are,  I  will  send  Aunt 


The  Valley  Path  127 

Dike  up  to  stay  with  you.  Mrs.  Tucker 
will  not  waken  before  midnight  possibly ; 
I  have  given  her  a  sleeping  potion." 

There  was  the  faintest  hint  of  embar- 
rassment in  her  manner  as  she  replied: 

"Joe  said  he'd  come  up  and  sit  with  me 
till  Lucy  Ann  got  here,  and  then  he  said 
he'd  fetch  me  home  again." 

"Oh!  he  did!" 

There  was  a  slight  impatience  in  the 
words,  but  she  did  not  recognise  it.  She 
was  innocent  of  intent  to  wound ;  too  un- 
conscious of  offence,  too  entirely  unused 
to  the  world  and  its  ways,  to  understand 
that  she  could  be  in  any  sense  a  cause, 
however  innocent,  of  contention, — a  thorn 
in  the  bosom  of  a  man's  content. 

She  gave  him  her  earnest  and  entire 
attention  while  he  explained  the  different 
medicines  and  gave  directions  concerning 
them,  interrupting  him  now  and  then,  if 
it  might  be  called  an  interruption,  with 
her  simple  "Yes,  sir,"  "No,  sir,"  "All 
right,  Doctor  Borin'."  She  even  walked 


128  The  Valley  Path 

to  the  gate  with  him,  and  put  the  rusted 
chain  over  the  post  that  held  the  broken 
fastenings  ;  and  called  to  him  as  he  went 
off  down  the  snow-dusted  path  : 

"  I'll  fetch  you  a  basket  of  fresh  eggs 
to-morrow,  sure  and  certain." 

And  he  had  called  back  to  her,  "  So 
do  ;  so  do,"  quite  cheerily. 

Yet  there  was  an  ache  in  his  heart ;  the 
thorn  had  pierced  home. 


Chapter  VIII 

THE  patient  was  asleep  and  Alicia 
busy  putting  things  to  rights  in  the 
shed-room,  when  Joe  tapped  upon  the 
window.  Carefully  she  opened  the  door 
to  admit  him,  and  drew  back,  laughing 
noiselessly  at  the  figure  he  presented. 
His  arms  were  filled  with  the  hickory 
sticks  that  he  had  cut  in  the  forest;  his 
very  chin  was  invisible ;  only  a  mass  of 
tawny  hair,  a  slouch,  and  a  pair  of 
restless  blue  eyes  appeared  above  the 
"  lumber  pile." 

"  I  fetched  you  up  an  armful  of  wood," 
said  he.  "  I'll  pile  it  back  here  by  the 
fireplace  handy  for  you.  I  reckin  it  won't 
come  amiss  in  the  mornin',  nohow." 

"  Set  it  down  careful,  Joe,"  said  Lissy, 

<fso's   not  to   disturb   Mis'   Tucker.     It 
129 


130  The  Valley  Path 

was  certainly  thoughtful  of  you  to  fetch 
it  up  for —  Lucy  Ann." 

"Lucy  Ann  be  —  " 

"  Heish,"  laughed  Lissy,  nodding  to- 
wards the  sick-room. 

"  Waal,"  said  Joe,  "  I  didn't  fetch  it  for 
her,  though  I  knew  in  reason  she'd  use  it. 
I  reckin  I'd  better  take  the  pail  and  run 
down  to  the  spring  for  some  water.  It's 
goin'  to  be  mighty  dark  outside,  an'  tol- 
er'ble  cold.  Yes,  I  lay  I'll  fetch  a  pail  o' 
water  —  for  Lucy  Ann." 

Alicia  left  the  dishes  she  was  arranging 
on  their  shelves,  and  came  and  stood  by 
him,  resting  her  hand  lightly  upon  his 
sleeve. 

"  You're  mighty  good,  Joe,"  she  said, 
"  an'  mighty  thoughtful  o'  others." 

He  looked  down  into  the  pretty,  uplifted 
face  so  near  his  shoulder.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  have  the  face  there  —  very 
pleasant. 

"  I'm  afeard  it's  only  you  I'm  thinkin' 
of,  Lissy,"  he  admitted.  "  A  feller  don't 


The  Valley  Path  131 

deserve  much  praise  for  tryin'  to  pleasure 
the  girl  he  loves,  I  reckin.  But  —  "he 
hesitated ;  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  from 
Alicia's  pretty  mouth  that  he  was 
"good;"  he  would  like  her  to  say  it 
again,  to  have  her  think  it  always ;  but 
his  natural  honesty  spurned  the  deceit. 
"Shucks!"  he  said,  "I  ain't  'good.'  You 
know  I'm  the  biggest  sinner  on  this  earth, 
maybe  in  Georgy,  too.  Ask  old  mealy- 
mouth,  if  you  misdoubt  it,  —  he'll  tell 
you,  Brother  Barry  will.  Shucks  !  I  say 
I'd  ruther  be  a  sinner  o'  the  deepest  dye 
'an  ter  be  like  him  ;  he's  the  darndest  — " 
She  laid  her  hand  lightly  upon  his  lips : 
"  Heish  !  "  The  laughter  in  her  eyes 
belied  the  sternness  in  her  voice.  "  You're 
mighty  wicked,  that's  certain ;  and  I  ain't 
any  better.  I  reckin  we're  about  give  over 
to  Satan  alike,  —  me  and  you,  and  Doctor 
Borin',  too." 

There  was  a  momentary  flash  in  the 
eyes  fixed  upon  her.  If  she  saw  it,  it 
was  gone  so  quickly  she  doubted  it  had 


132  The  Valley  Path 

been  there  ;  his  voice  was  friendly  enough 
when  he  asked,  quietly  : 

"  Has  he  been  here,  the  mad  doctor  ?  " 
"  Why,  I  went  after  him,"  she  replied, 
"  and  he  wasn't  there,  but  he  come  up  and 
fixed  a  plaster  out  o'  mustard,  and  mixed 
somethin'  in  a  teacup,  for  Mis'  Tucker  to 
swallow ;  and  then  he  went  home  again. 

0  Joe,  I  just  wish  you  could  hear  him 
say  — "  she  glanced   over   her  shoulder, 
drew  closer  to  his  side,  and  put  her  lips 
to  his  ear  —  "  '  Hell ! '  when  things  don't 
go  to  pleasure  him." 

"  I  heard  him  say  a  hornet  sting  ware 
erysip'las,"  said  Joe,  mollified  by  the  near- 
ness of  her  face,  "  an'  if  I  rickerlict  right 
hit  ware  me  as  said  c  Hell '  that  time." 

"  I'll  be  boun'  it  was,"  said  Alicia. 
"  When  compliments  o'  that  kind  air 
passin'  I'll  be  boun'  you'll  get  in  a  say. 
What's  become  o'  the  pail  o'  water,  Joe  P 

1  reckin  I'll  need  it  about   knockin'   up 
somethin'  for  Lucy  Ann  and  Jim  to  eat, 
'gainst  they  get  here." 


The  Valley  Path  133 

"  Plumb  forgot  it,"  said  Joe.  "  But  I'll 
go  now,  if  I  can  get  my  own  consent  ter 
tear  myse'f  away  ter  the  spring  an'  leave 
you  a-standin'  here  by  yourse'f  when  I 
might  be  a-standin'  with  you." 

She  glanced  up  with  sudden  inspiration. 

"Why,  Joe,"  she  said,  "I'll  go  with 
you.  Wait  till  I  peep  at  Mis'  Tucker." 

She  drew  the  covers  gently  about  the 
sleeper,  noiselessly  laid  a  stick  of  wood  on 
the  fire,  and  as  noiselessly  slipped  back  to 
Joe,  the  cedar  water-bucket  in  one  hand, 
her  old  shawl  in  the  other. 

"  I'll  have  to  hurry  back  and  get  you  a 
mouthful  to  eat,"  she  said,  as  they  started 
briskly  off  together. 

"  Don't  you  be  worryin'  about  me," 
said  Joe.  "  I  come  over  here  ter  he'p 
you,  not  to-  be  makin'  of  more  work  for 
you-uns ;  I  can  just  as  well  wait  till  the 
rest  have  their  supper  as  not,  and  waitin' 
will  make  less  work  for  you,  Lissy.  My ! 
this  gate  is  a  bother;  I'll  come  over  ter- 
morrer  an'  mend  it,  if  the  Lord  spares  me, 


134  The  Valley  Path 

seein'  as  that  lazy  Jim  won't.  Now  then ! 
see  who'll  get  ter  the  spring  first." 

They  swung  the  bucket  between  them, 
and  started  off,  like  two  children,  in  the 
crisp,  cold  air,  down  the  road  to  the  spring 
under  the  bluff's  side.  It  was  a  short 
run,  for  there  was  no  moon,  and  the  stars 
were  straggling  in  the  west,  clouds  were 
gathering,  and  when  they  turned  off  the 
road  into  the  foot-path,  the  way  was  too 
narrow,  and  the  rattling  dead  undergrowth 
too  close  and  thick,  for  further  racing. 
They  tarried  but  a  moment,  for  the  night 
was  cold ;  yet  they  returned  slowly,  and 
their  talk  was  serious,  their  voices  low,  as 
if  that  had  been  said  at  the  spring  under 
the  bluff  which  had  touched  the  stronger 
chords  and  awakened  the  deeper  feelings 
of  the  heart.  In  his  right  hand  Joe  car- 
ried the  bucket;  his  left  lay  upon  his 
heart,  and  Lissy's  right  slipped  through 
his  arm  was  snugly  folded  within  it. 

"  I'm  a-comin'  sometime,  sometime" 
she  was  saying;  "just  as  soon  as  they 


The  Valley  Path  135 

can  spare  me.  When  you  talk  about  the 
little  chickens  and  the  lambs,  and  the 
cows  waitin'  to  be  milked,  I  want  to  go 
real  bad,  and  he'p  you  with  'em,  Joe.  I 
like  little  chickens ;  and  I  never  hear  a 
lamb  bleat  but  I  want  to  pick  it  up  in  my 
arms  and  rock  it  to  sleep.  But  —  " 

She  hesitated,  and,  resting  her  head 
against  his  arm,  sighed. 

"  Do  as  you  see  best,  Lissy,"  said  Joe. 
"  I'm  a-tryin'  not  ter  worry  you.  But  it 
do  seem  to  me  as  you  air  mighty  give  ter 
puttin'  off." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  admitted.  "  I  know 
it,  Joe.  Granny's  tellin'  me  about  that 
constant;  and  Brother  Barry." 

"  Oh,  damn  Brother  Barry  !  What's 
old  mealy-mouth  got  ter  do  with  you- 
uns  ?  I  know  I  do  despise  the  groun' 
he  tromps  on.  An'  I  tell  you  now, 
Lissy,  I  ruther  hear  that  ole  sinner  down 
yander,  the  mad  doctor,  as  don't  know 
heaven  from  hornet — I'd  ruther  hear 
him  draw  his  breath  in  an'  shet  his  teeth, 


136  The  Valley  Path 

an'  say  one  good  honest  (  Hell ! '  like  he 
says  it,  as  to  hear  Brother  Barry  hallelu- 
yahin'  for  a  month.  Thar's  more  relig- 
ion in  it,  ter  my  notion.  An'  thar'  ain't 
no  sneak  about  him,  nuther.  He's  ready 
ter  own  up,  fair  and  square,  if  a  feller  gits 
the  best  of  him.  Why,  he  told  it  all  over 
the  mount'n  about  that  hornet-sting  joke, 
—  told  it  up  ter  S'wanee  even ;  let  on  he 
ware  plumb  sold.  It  was  only  a  little 
runt  of  a  joke  anyhow;  but  blamed  if  he 
didn't  stan'  up  ter  it  like  a  man." 

"  I  reckin  we're  all  mighty  wicked," 
said  Lissy,  ignoring  the  bringing  of  the 
doctor  into  the  conversation  ;  "  but  some- 
how I  can't  bring  myse'f  to  think  like 
Brother  Barry.  I  can't  make  God  out  to 
be  as  Brother  Barry  makes  Him.  He 
preached  to  the  people  over  at  Goshen 
last  fall  that  God  killed  Ike  Jordan  last 
September,  because  Ike  drove  his  sheep 
up  the  mountain  on  Sunday.  Everybody 
knew  the  lightnin'  struck  him  when  he 
was  bringin'  Mis'  Tucker's  warpin'  bars 


The  Valley  Path  137 

home  for  her,  because  she  wasn't  able  to 
git  a  wagon  and  go  down  to  Pelham  to 
get  'em,  and  there  was  nobody  else  at 
home  to  go,  unless  it  was  Lucy  Ann's 
baby,  that  hadn't  learned  to  walk  yet. 
And  he  told  at  Jim  Tyler's  funeral  last 
spring  that  the  Lord  had  need  of  Jim 
and  took  him  home.  I'm  a-thinkin'  as 
they  must  be  a  mighty  sca'ce  of  hands  in 
heaven  if  such  a  no-'count  as  Jim  Tyler 
was  needed  to  fill  out.  Truth  is,  Jim  fell 
off  the  bluff  when  he  was  drunk  and 
broke  his  own  neck,  after  gettin'  lost  go- 
in'  home  from  Tracy.  He  was  a  profes- 
sin'  member,  however,  and  so  maybe  his 
sprees  ware  overlooked,  and  he  really  had 
a  call  to  come  up  higher. 

"  I'm  a  sinner,  —  I  can't  set  myse'f  up 
in  judgment.  Though  it  always  seemed 
to  me  as  there  ought  to  be,  as  there  must 
be,  some  better  way  o'  savin'  folks  than 
by  threat'nin'  of  'em,  an'  killin'  'em  off 
with  lightnin'  and  such.  Seems  like  it 
ain't  right ;  it  makes  God  most  like  a  — 


138  The  Valley  Path 

wild  beast.  I  reckin  that's  why  I  can't 
love  Him;  I'm  'fraid  of  Him.  An'  I 
won't  be  druv  —  I  can't.  But  I  would 
truly  like  to  know,  for  certain;  I'd  like 
to  know  what  be  the  truth.  Sometimes  I 
almost  get  my  own  consent  to  ask  Doctor 
Borin'  to  tell  me." 

The  arm  upon  which  her  hand  rested 
gave  a  sudden  jerk  ;  the  owner  of  it  stood 
free  of  her,  and,  although  it  was  too  dark 
for  her  to  see  his  face,  she  understood  that 
Joe  was  angry ;  the  jealousy  that  had 
been  brooding  in  his  heart  suddenly  burst 
forth. 

"  Do  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  do  ask  him  ; 
he  knows ;  he  knows  ever' thing.  He's 
smart  —  he's  smart  as  God,  I  reckin; 
since  he  knows  the  plan  o'  salvation  so 
peart.  Keeps  it  corked  up  like  he  does 
his  doctor  stuff,  in  a  bottle,  I  reckin. 
Oh,  yes  !  go  ask  the  mad  doctor  to  save 
yo'  soul ;  he  can  do  it.  He'd  like  mighty 
well  to  have  you  saaft-so'derin'  him  like 
the  sisters  saaft-so'der  Brother  Barry. 


The  Valley  Path  139 

An'  it  ain't  so  clear  ter  my  mind  but 
you'd  enjoy  it  'bout  as  much  as  old  ery- 
sip'las  would." 

"Joe  Bowen!" 

Her  voice  was  full  of  surprised  indigna- 
tion; had  he  been  calmer,  more  himself, 
he  would  have  known  that  he  alone  had 
suggested  Doctor  Boring,  as  something 
more  than  the  truly  benevolent  friend, 
the  lonely  old  man,  the  thoroughly  good 
physician.  He  would  have  detected  in 
her  simple,  startled  exclamation,  her  in- 
ability to  find  words  with  which  to  deny 
his  unseemly  charge,  the  very  first  in- 
timation of  the  doctor's  regard  for  her 
that  had  ever  so  much  as  hinted  itself 
to  her  unsuspecting  heart.  But  he  was 
too  angry  to  see  anything,  or  to  heed 
what  he  did  or  said. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you,  Lissy,"  he  broke 
out,  fiercely.  "  You're  mighty  keerful  not 
ter  set  a  day  for  marryin'  me;  I'll  lay  you 
wouldn't  find  it  so  hard  ter  fix  a  time  for 
marryin'  him,  if  he  asks  you.  I  know 


140  The  Valley  Path 

you.  It's  all  mighty  well  ter  be  runnin' 
over  the  mount'n  nussin'  of  the  sick,  as 
ain't  no  manner  o'  kin  ter  you,  an'  got  no 
manner  o'  claim,  when  you  know  he  II  be 
thar,  ter  pass  compliments  over  you,  an' 
send  you  off  ter  breakfast  at  his  house, 
ridin'  his  horse.  An'  happen  he  ain't 
thar  you  must  up  an'  sen  for  him  ter 
mix  mustard,  an'  dose  out  qui-nine;  an'  do 
a  lot  o'  rubbish  that  ain't  got  neither  sense 
nor  savin'  in  it.  Darn  his  hide!  if  he 
don't  leave  this  valley  I'll  shoot  him. 
An'  you  may  tell  him  so  with  my  com- 
pliments. Shucks !  it's  easy  as  eatin'  ter 
see  he's  in  love  with  you." 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  shed- 
room  ;  Lissy  stood  with  her  hand  upon 
the  latch-string,  afraid  to  draw  it,  lest  the 
loud,  angry  voice  disturb  the  sick  woman 
in  the  next  room.  Yet  she  was  terribly 
angry ;  angry  enough  to  go  in  at  that  door 
and  leave  him  there  on  the  outside,  and 
on  the  outside  of  her  life,  for  ever.  She 
had  made  no  reply  to  his  outbreak  other 


The  Valley  Path  141 

than  the  simple  exclamation  of  surprise. 
While  she  stood  there,  waiting  until  he 
should  finish  his  tirade,  she  heard  Mrs. 
Tucker  calling  to  her  to  come  in :  "  she 
wanted  her  special." 

"  Mis'  Tucker's  'wake  and  wantin'  me," 
she  said,  quietly.  "  Good-night,  Joe.  You 
can  leave  the  pail  outside,  I  sha'n't  need 
it."  And  giving  the  latch-string  a  pull, 
she  went  in,  and  left  him  there  in  the  dark- 
ness, with  the  door  shut  fast  between  them. 

He  had  planted  a  thought  in  her  heart 
that  might  never  be  cast  out ;  had  accom- 
plished that  which,  of  all  things,  he  would 
not  have  done.  He  had  awakened  her 
wonder,  drawn  for  her  a  comparison  be- 
tween himself  and  the  man  sleeping  at  that 
moment  the  sleep  of  one  who  feels  that 
he  has  met  a  burden  and  lifted  it ;  —  he 
had  lifted  many  burdens  for  the  poor; 
the  last  for  the  old  woman  to  whose 
need  he  had  responded  at  the  sacrifice 
of  his  own  comfort  and  inclination.  Joe, 
too,  had  offered  his  shoulder  to  the  bur- 


142  The  Valley  Path 

den;  but,  ah,  the  difference  of  motives. 
He  admitted  that  difference  to  his  own 
heart  as  he  rode  through  the  valley  to- 
wards his  home.  But  he  was  ungenerous 
enough  to  hope  that  Alicia  would  not  see 
it  in  the  same  light. 

But  Alicia  scarcely  thought  of  him. 
At  another  time,  girl-like,  she  would 
have  sat  down  and  cried  over  the  ruin 
of  her  pretty  dream;  but  now,  having 
explained  to  Mrs.  Tucker  that  Joe  had 
"got  mad  and  gone  home,"  and  having 
given  her  the  medicine  as  she  had  been 
instructed  to  give  it,  and  having  seen 
her  patient  drop  into  a  gentle  slumber, 
Alicia  went  back  to  the  shed-room,  made 
a  pot  of  coffee  for  Lucy  Ann  and  Jim, 
and  otherwise  proceeded  to  "have  things 
ready  'gainst  their  cominV 

But  that  night,  when  her  work  was 
done,  and  the  pretty  head  lay  upon  its 
pillow  in  Mrs.  Tucker's  close  little  rafter 
room,  sleep,  heretofore  so  easily  wooed, 
refused  to  come.  Still,  her  thoughts  were 


The  Valley  Path  143 

not  of  Joe,  so  much  as  of  Joe's  words. 
Did  the  doctor  care  for  her  ?  She  felt  the 
red  creep  to  ner  temples.  She  had  never 
thought  of  such  a  thing;  but  now  —  since 
Joe  had  thought  for  her  —  his  touch  had 
been  always  gentle,  his  voice  ever  kind ; 
he  had  always  a  smile  for  her.  "And  he 
was  so  good  ;  he  never  went  off  at  a  tan- 
gent and  railed  out  upon  folks.  If  he 
loved  a  woman,  and  knew  some  one  else 
loved  her  better,  he  would  close  his  lips 
for  all  words  but  the  very  kindest.  He 
would  never  fault  a  girl  because  some  one 
else  found  her  good  and  pretty." 

And  although  no  word  was  spoken, 
Joe  lost  by  comparison. 

"  It  did  look  bad,  perhaps,  her  always 
meeting  him  when  there  was  sickness ; " 
so  ran  her  thought;  "but  she  had  always 
helped  this  way.  Most  of  the  neighbours 
did,  who  had  nothing  to  prevent.  Still, 
it  did  look  bad;  she  had  never  thought 
of  it  before,  but  now  that  she  did  think, 
it  looked  decidedly  queer.  She  would 


144  The  Valley  Path 

not  do  it  again.  Doctor  Boring  might 
think  bad  of  it  his  own  self — might  think 
she  was  trying  to  meet  him.  And  she 
wouldn't  go  over  there  as  free  as  she 
had  been  going ;  he  might  think  bad  of 
that.  But,  no;  he  was  good;  had  sense; 
he  was  too  good  to  think  bad  of  anybody. 
And  he  liked  her  to  come,  ordered  eggs 
just  to  make  her  come  —  perhaps."  And 
with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  as  if  the 
thought  might  be  not  altogether  unpleas- 
ant, Alicia  fell  asleep. 


Chapter  IX 

THERE  was  trouble  in  the  wind. 
The  old  trust,  the  quiet  sense  of 
oneness  that  had  existed  between  Joe  and 
Lissy,  had  received  a  shock.  As  the  weeks 
went  by  and  the  quarrel  was  not  made  up, 
Joe  began  to  grow  sullen  and  morose.  He 
had  never  known  Lissy  as  she  appeared 
to  him  during  those  weeks.  Light,  gay, 
careless,  she  seemed  to  care  no  more  for 
his  anger  than  she  cared  for  his  suffering. 
He  had  expected  to  teach  her  a  lesson,  to 
force  her  to  sue  for  forgiveness ;  failing  in 
that,  he  sought  to  play  upon  her  tender- 
ness, to  reach  her  by  his  own  sadness  and 
regret. 

His  first  call  after  the  rupture  was 
ostensibly  upon  the  old  people.  He 
brought  a  turn  of  corn  to  the  mill,  and 


146  The  Valley  Path 

while  waiting  "  allowed  he'd  step  up  ter 
the  house  an'  see  how  granny  was  comin' 
on." 

Lissy  saw  him  coming  up  the  mill  path, 
and,  blushing,  rose  to  receive  him.  After 
all,  she  liked  Joe,  and  regretted  the  quar- 
rel !  had  he  asked  her  to  do  so,  at  that 
moment  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  she 
might  have  received  him  again  into  her 
trust  and  affection. 

But  he  merely  gave  her  a  careless 
"  Howdy,  Lissy,"  and  asked  to  see  her 
grandmother. 

The  next  time  he  called  she  was  careful 
to  meet  him  at  the  door,  and,  calling  to 
her  grandmother  that  he  was  there,  went 
quietly  on  making  her  preparations  for 
carrying  some  fresh  butter  to  the  boarding- 
house  on  the  mountain.  He  had  the  cha- 
grin of  seeing  her  adjust  the  red  felt  upon 
her  head  with  more  than  her  usual  care ; 
she  even  tied  a  bit  of  bright  ribbon  into 
her  hair ;  he  noticed  how  perfectly  the  red 
adornment  blended  with  the  color  in  her 


The  Valley  Path  147 

cheek  ;  and  he  noticed,  in  the  same  mirror 
that  had  reflected  the  laughing,  girlish  face, 
his  own  hollow  eyes,  telling  the  story  of 
sleepless  nights  and  weary  vigils.  She 
made  no  apology  for  leaving ;  on  the 
contrary,  she  tossed  him  an  offhand  de- 
fiance by  calling  to  Al  to  bring  her  the 
basket  of  eggs  for  Doctor  Boring. 

"  I'll  stop  as  I  go  by,  and  see  if  any- 
body's sick  and  needin'  me,"  she  said. 
"  I'm  gettin'  my  hand  out  since  Mis' 
Tucker  got  up  and  about.  Though  I'm 
glad  she's  well,  goodness  knows.  Well, 
an'  singin'  the  praises  of  the  mad  doctor 
like  the  woods  afire." 

Granny  unconsciously  added  fuel  to  the 
flame  jealousy  had  kindled  : 

"  Though  she's  a-wonderin'  some  whar 
the  pay  air  ter  come  from,  for  the  powders 
an'  stuff  he  give  her.  It  do  beat  my  time, 
the  hold  the  infidel  air  gittin'  on  the  val- 
ley. He  even  tol'  Lissy  thar  as  he'd 
make  his  nigger  plow  her  gyarden,  an' 
plant  it,  in  the  spring.  Sowin'  ter  de- 


148  The  Valley  Path 

struction,  I  tell  Lissy,  but  seems  like  her 
an'  her  grandad  can't  see  it  so." 

Joe  could  do  nothing  but  see  her  go  off 
with  that  contented  look  upon  her  face, 
and  a  basket  on  either  arm. 

But  his  visit  lost  its  flavour  when  she 
was  gone ;  he  had  exhausted  himself  upon 
the  new  colt  he  had  bought  and  meant  to 
"  break  ter  a  side-saddle,"  before  Alicia 
left;  the  horse  was  mean  and  valueless 
enough  when  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
the  rider  he  had  intended  should  occupy 
that  same  side-saddle  might  never  mount 
it,  after  all, —  might  marry  the  mad  doctor, 
just  to  spite  him  ;  for  it  never  occurred  to 
him  that  she  could  really  love  the  man 
old  enough  to  be  her  father.  Still  she 
might  marry  him  ;  women  were  guilty  of 
very  foolish  acts  sometimes,  and  Lissy 
was  a  woman.  So  he  reasoned,  and  the 
more  he  reasoned  the  more  angry  he  be- 
came ;  until,  unable  to  sit  tamely  there 
with  the  knowledge  that  she  was  at  that 
moment  at  his  rival's  house,  sitting  oppo- 


The  Valley  Path  149 

site  him  at  the  fire  perhaps,  with  that  same 
motherly  sweetness  in  her  face  that  had 
been  there  when  she  spoke  of  rocking  the 
little  lambs  to  sleep  in  her  arms,  he  got 
up,  said  good-by,  and  struck  out  across 
the  mountain.  He  meant  to  meet  her 
somewhere  upon  the  way,  or  to  wait  for 
her  if  she  tarried,  and  to  have  it  out  with 
her.  They  must  either  "  make  it  up  "  or 
"  fight  it  out,"  he  declared  ;  meaning  that 
she  was  to  understand  that  she  couldn't 
play  fast  and  loose  with  him. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Mrs.  Tucker's 
cabin  his  anger  had  cooled  somewhat ;  he 
was  quite  willing  to  make  up.  If  Alicia 
would  agree  to  marry  him  without  further 
"  foolishness,"  or  would  even  "  fix  a  day," 
however  distant,  he  would  let  "  bygones 
be  bygones  and  say  no  more  about  it." 
So  he  hung  about,  talking  to  old  Mrs. 
Tucker,  and  inwardly  fretting  because 
Alicia  tarried  at  the  doctor's. 

When  at  last  she  did  come  she  would 
have  passed  him  without  a  word,  without 


150  The  Valley  Path 

so  much  as  a  nod  of  recognition,  but  that 
he  went  down  the  road  a  little  distance  to 
meet  her.  Then  when  her  eyes  were 
lifted  to  his  he  saw  that  she  had  been 
weeping ;  the  lids  were  instantly  drooped, 
refusing  to  meet  his. 

Old  Mrs.  Tucker  from  her  window 
could  see,  without  hearing  what  was  said, 
that  Joe  was  angry.  She  saw,  too,  that 
which  Joe  failed  to  see,  —  that  Alicia  was 
not  feigning  indifference. 

As  they  drew  nearer,  her  sharp  old  ears 
caught  a  threat  the  jealous  young  lover  let 
fall ;  not  the  whole  of  it,  but  enough  to 
convince  her  that  the  doctor  was  in  dan- 
ger of  his  life. 

"  Land  o'  mercy  !"  she  exclaimed.  "Air 
Joe  Bowen  drunk  ?  Or  air  he  out  of  his 
head  ?  Or  air  he  just  a  nat'ral  fool  ? 
Jealous  of  the  mad  doctor !  Well,  I'll 
be  beat !  What  air  we-all  a-comin'  ter, 
I  wonder.  Thar !  if  Lissy  ain't  comin' 
in,  an'  just  leavin'  him  ter  preach  ter  the 
gate-post  an'  the  horse-block.  I  don't 


The  Valley  Path  151 

wonder.  I  ain't  forgot  how  he  talked 
that  night  I  ware  so  sick,  an'  I  called  the 
child  in  so's  he  couldn't  jaw  the  life  out 
of  her,  —  though  he  didn't  know  I  heard 
his  threatn'n',  an'  no  more  did  Lissy." 

How  easy  it  would  have  been  to  set 
him  right ;  yet  Alicia  refused  to  speak  the 
consent  he  asked,  or  to  explain  her  tears 
and  agitation.  She  had  meant  to  tell 
him,  to  be  kind  to  him ;  but  he  had  given 
her  no  opportunity ;  now  she  said  "  he 
might  go." 

She  gave  Mrs.  Tucker  a  quiet  "  Good- 
mornin',"  and  as  that  woman  wisely  re- 
frained from  speaking  of  the  quarrel,  it 
was  not  mentioned. 

After  awhile  she  said  "  Good-mornin' ' 
again,  and  went  back  down  the  mountain, 
home,  and  sent  Al  to  carry  the  butter  to 
Sewanee.  Once  alone  in  her  own  little 
room  with  its  white  naked  walls  and  mus- 
lin curtains,  Alicia  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillows  of  her  bed  and  burst  into  tears. 
For  the  moment,  Joe  became  dear ;  the 


152  The  Valley  Path 

sense  of  loss  made  him  so.  But  the  next 
day  she  went  about  her  duties  as  usual ; 
the  storm  had  passed.  Of  his  threats 
she  had  little  fear.  She  had  known  him 
a  long  time,  almost  all  her  life,  and  she 
had  never  known  him  do  a  cowardly  or  an 
unprincipled  thing.  She  could  say  that 
much  for  him,  at  all  events. 

Mrs.  Tucker,  however,  was  not  so  sure 
of  him.  No  sooner  had  Alicia  gone  home 
than  the  old  woman  tied  the  strings  of 
her  black  sunbonnet  under  her  chin  and 
went  down  the  mountain.  She  did  not 
follow  the  footpath  leading  to  the  physi- 
cian's house  from  the  rear,  but  took  the 
little  trail  to  the  right  which  would  cross 
the  "  big  road"  at  a  point  where  she  knew 
he  often  walked  mornings,  going  as  far, 
sometimes,  as  Pelham  Creek. 

When  she  reached  the  top  of  a  little 
bluff  where  there  was  a  clearing,  she  saw 
him  coming  down  the  road,  flecking  with 
his  cane  at  the  long  dry  grasses  either 
side.  His  head  was  dropped  forward  in 


The  Valley  Path  153 

the  attitude  of  one  lost  in  thought.  And 
indeed,  he  had  abundant  cause  for  medi- 
tation ;  he  was  half  tempted  to  close  his 
house  and  go  back  to  the  city,  as  his  first 
plan  had  been,  and  remain  there  until 
summer.  Joe  Bowen  was  beginning  to 
annoy  him  considerably.  He  had  been 
disappointed  in  Bowen ;  he  had  not  been 
the  friend  a  first  acquaintance  with  him 
had  promised.  Of  late,  indeed,  he  had 
been  quite  unfriendly ;  had  displayed  a 
touch  of  meanness  even,  in  shooting  a 
fine  colt  of  the  doctor's  that  had  broken 
out,  and  found  a  way  into  Joe's  pasture. 

"  I  ought  to  sue  him  and  make  him 
pay  for  it,"  said  the  physician,  "  and  I 
would,  only  that  I  believe  he  is  trying  to 
provoke  me  into  a  quarrel." 

Since  the  killing  of  the  colt,  that  sense 
of  littleness,  the  sure  effect  of  a  cowardly 
deed,  had  kept  Joe  at  a  distance.  What 
had  he  done,  the  doctor  wondered,  to  so 
arouse  the  animosity  of  the  young  fellow? 
If  he  had  wronged  him  he  was  more  than 


154  The  Valley  Path 

willing  to  make  atonement,  if  he  only 
knew  wherein  the  wrong  consisted. 

He  was  soon  to  be  enlightened ;  the 
enlightenment,  or  the  bringer  of  it,  was 
calling  and  signalling  from  the  bluff  above 
the  roadside. 

"Doctor  Borin',"  she  called,  "O  Doc- 
tor Borin' !  wait  thar  a  minute  if  you 
please,  Doctor  Borin' ;  I  am  comin'  down 
by  the  path  to  speak  ter  you-uns." 

Nothing  loath,  he  seated  himself  upon  a 
great  gray  boulder  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff, 
and  waited,  while  Mrs.  Tucker  ran  down 
the  path  to  meet  him. 

She  stood  before  him  at  last,  breathless, 
panting,  and,  although  she  made  an  effort 
to  disguise  it,  he  saw  that  she  was  excited. 

"Doctor  Borin',"  she  said,  "I  want  ter 
have  a  settlemint  with  you-uns,  for  doc- 
torin'  of  me  whenst  I  ware  took  sick  last 
month.  I  want  a  settlemint." 

Accustomed  to  humanity  in  many  phases, 
he  saw  at  once  that  she  was  manoeuvring. 

"  A  settlement  ?"  he  replied.     "Well, 


The  Valley  Path  155 

bring  me  half  a  dozen  chickens.  I'm  not 
going  to  skip  the  country  yet,  and  I  don't 
believe  you  are." 

The  worried  expression  in  her  face 
did  not  leave  it,  as  she  said,  "Doctor 
Borin',  you  air  a  good  man ;  you  have 
been  mighty  clever  ter  me  an'  mine." 

"  Much  obliged,  madam,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  But  she  gave 
no  heed  to  the  interruption. 

"  I  wish  you  well,  Doctor  Borin' ;  I  ud 
hate  mightily  if  anything  ware  ter  happen 
ter  you-uns." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "am  I  in  any  danger, 
Mrs.  Tucker  ? " 

The  amusement  left  his  face ;  an  ex- 
pression of  annoyance  came  in  its  place. 

"Yes,  Doctor  Borin',  I'm  afeard  you 
air.  Leastways  —  won't  you  take  t'other 
path  home  ?  I  ain't  a-sayin'  anybody  ud 
be  mean  enough  or  sneak  enough  or  cow- 
ard enough  ter  hurt  you  unbeknownst. 
But  I  wish't  you'd  take  the  mount'n  path 
home,  'stid  o'  the  valley  path." 


156  The  Valley  Path 

Her  solicitude  touched  him  keenly. 
But  there  was  no  coward  taint  in  his 
blood ;  the  man  who  had  braved  creeds, 
religious  and  social  ostracism,  was  not  the 
man  to  quail  before  a  physical  danger. 
He  hesitated,  but  only  in  order  to  shape 
his  language  into  form  not  to  wound 
her. 

"Neither  shall  I,"  he  said,  "be  small 
enough  or  weak  enough  or  coward 
enough  to  turn  my  back  to  a  hidden 
danger.  Madam,  no  coward  ever  sees 
the  old  doctor's  heels  !  " 

"  Then  won't  you  go,  t'other  way  I 
mean,  for  me?  Jest  ter  pleasure  an  ole 
woman  who  air  obligated  ter  yer,  an' 
who  wishes  you  well  ?  Won't  you  do 
it  —  for  me,  Doctor  Borin' ?  " 

She  laid  her  hard  old  hand  upon  his 
sleeve ;  in  the  faded  eyes  tears  were  start- 
ing ;  the  thin  lips  twitched  in  a  way  that 
was  almost  painful  to  witness.  Watching 
her,  there  stirred  in  his  heart  a  feeling 
which  had  slumbered  for  years.  Before 


The  Valley  Path  157 

him,  between  the  yellow  old  face  and  his 
own,  another  face  arose,  his  mother's ; 
gentle,  wistful,  the  tears  in  the  sad,  fath- 
omless eyes,  the  white  lips  a-quiver  with 
pain  as  they  pleaded  with  him  to  forgive, 
to  forget,  for  her  sake.  He  had  truly 
tried  for  her  sake ;  for  her  sake  he  would 
"  pleasure  "  this  humble  old  woman  who 
had  come  to  him  in  his  mother's  stead. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "if  it  will  be  any 
gratification  to  you  I  will  take  the  path 
down  the  mountain  and  go  home  the  back 
way.  But  you  must  know  that  I  am  not 
afraid  of  dangers  that  hide  in  the  bush; 
because  I  am  not  afraid  of  death,  perhaps ; 
it  is  life  that  makes  cowards  of  men,  not 
death.  I  hope  you  are  not  going  to  ask 
me  to  put  on  your  sunbonnet,  madam." 

He  was  laughing  again,  as  he  walked 
by  her  side,  up  the  mountain  to  a  point 
where  her  path  met  the  path  leading  to 
his  cabin. 

"  Naw,  sir,  I  sha'n't  ask  you  to  do 
that,"  she  replied;  "but,  Doctor  Borin', 


158  The  Valley  Path 

if  you  meet  Lissy  Reams  on  the  way,  I 
wish't  you  wouldn't  stop  ter  talk  ter  her." 

He  gathered  himself  together,  looked 
her  full  in  the  eye,  and  said,  "Hell!  " 

"  I  knowed  that  ware  just  what  you 
would  say.  But  I  wish  you  would  mind 
what  /  say.  I'm  goin'  up  this  way  now ; 
I'll  come  down  an'  fetch  the  chickens  to- 
morrer,  maybe  this  evenin' ;  good-day, 
Doctor  Borin'." 

Her  black  sunbonnet  appeared  now 
and  then,  bobbing  above  the  laurel  where 
her  path  wound  among  the  short  stunted 
growth.  He  watched  it  a  moment,  the 
tail  flapping  in  the  breeze  like  the  wings 
of  a  great  crow  about  to  alight  among  the 
bushes.  Then  he  turned  and  went  slowly 
down  the  mountain.  He  forgot  the  wrin- 
kled old  face  under  the  sunbonnet's  shade; 
to  his  vision  appeared  only  the  sublimity 
of  gratitude,  in  an  earnest,  simple  heart. 
She  had  tramped  all  that  distance  to 
warn  him  of  a  fancied,  perhaps  a  possi- 
ble, danger. 


The  Valley  Path  159 

When  she  had  eaten  her  dinner  she 
caught  six  of  her  best  young  pullets, 
and,  tying  their  legs  securely  with  strips 
of  old  cotton,  set  off  down  the  mountain 
again.  All  her  fears  were  reawakened. 
She  had  seen  Joe  ride  by  with  a  rifle 
flung  across  the  saddle-bow. 

How  he  laughed  at  her,  the  odd,  death- 
defying  old  doctor : 

"  Why,  my  good  woman,"  said  he,  "  I 
am  no  more  afraid  of  Joe  Bowen  than 
I  am  of  you.  He  will  never  shoot  me, 
don't  you  believe  it;  not  if  I  can  get 
a  word  with  him  before  he  pulls  the 
trigger.  If  he  does  he  will  have  to 
shoot  me  in  the  back,  and  Joe  Bowen 
isn't  a  coward,  whatever  may  be  his 
faults." 

"  He's  crazy,"  she  insisted.  "  He's 
ravin'  mad,  a-thinkin'  as  how  you-uns 
air  tryin'  ter  keep  company  with  Lissy 
Reams.  I  told  him  myself  that  he  was 
a  fool,  an'  little  better  than  a  idiot,  ter 
s'pose  you  ware  thinkin'  o'  that  chil'. 


160  The  Valley  Path 

An'  you  ole  enough  ter  be  her  gran'- 
father,  a-mighty  nigh." 

He  coloured,  and  dropped  his  eyes ; 
the  folly  of  his  thought  had  been  brought 
home  to  him  many  times  during  the  day. 
Strange  he  had  not  seen  it  himself.  Yet 
if  he  chose — that  pure,  wax-like  nature — 

He  put  the  temptation  aside;  he  would 
put  a  thorn  in  no  man's  content. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  think  of  me," 
he  said.  "  And  Joe  is  very  foolish  to 
hold  such  ideas.  Yes,  I  am  an  old  man, 
—  an  old  man.  Old  enough  to  be  her 
father;  yes,  quite  so,  quite  so." 

He  had  forgotten  her  presence,  and  sat 
with  his  head  dropped  forward,  and  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  fire.  The  vibrant 
clearness  of  her  voice,  when  she  spoke 
again,  quite  startled  him.  "  Can't  we 
have  a  settlemint  now,  Doctor  Borin'?" 

He  glanced  up,  quickly: 

"  Bring  me  another  half  dozen  chick- 
ens," he  said. 

He  sat  there  long  after  she  had  gone, 


The  Valley  Path  161 

his  head  drooped  upon  his  breast,  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  glowing  coal  bed. 
The  gold  of  the  afternoon  faded ;  the 
gray  twilight  set  in,  and  then  the  night, 
starlit  and  cold.  Ephraim  came  in  and 
built  up  the  fire,  but  the  physician  did 
not  stir.  At  last  old  Dike  called  him 
to  supper,  and  he  got  up,  exchanging 
without  thought  his  coat  for  the  purple 
dressing-gown. 

As  he  stood  before  the  mantel,  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  in  the  little 
mirror  above  it.  His  head  had  never 
looked  so  white,  his  eyes  so  wearily 
heavy.  "  Old  enough  to  be  her  father," 
he  murmured,  resting  a  moment  against 
the  mantel. 

"  De  supper  am  gittin'  col',  marster." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  am  coming.  I  forgot  all 
about  it,  I  am  afraid."  Then,  softly,  "  An 
old  man  ;  old  enough  to  be  her  father ; 
quite  so,  quite  so." 

Yet  he  remembered  that  she  had  said, 
"  You  don't  appear  to  be  so  old." 


Chapter  X 

JOE  had  not  stopped  in  the  valley,  as 
Mrs.  Tucker  feared,  to  waylay  Doctor 
Boring.  The  physician  had  judged  him 
more  correctly.  Joe  was  not  a  coward ; 
he  would  shoot  him  with  half  an  excuse 
for  doing  so ;  he  would  go  further,  and 
create  the  opportunity  ;  but  he  would  not, 
except  it  be  upon  impulse,  shoot  from 
ambush. 

Joe  rode  past  the  cabin  in  the  valley 
without  turning  his  head ;  he  was  riding 
the  black,  spirited  colt  he  had  lately  pur- 
chased, alas !  for  Alicia,  when  Alicia  should 
be  his  wife.  The  fact  did  not  augment 
his  good  humour.  He  rode  briskly  by, 
sitting  his  mount  like  an  Indian,  down  to 
Cowan,  where  he  spent  the  day  loafing, 

and  nursing  his  wrath,  among  the  usual 
162 


The  Valley  Path  163 

Saturday  visitors  "  to  town."  Bowen  was 
not  a  drinker ;  when  he  drank  it  was  more 
as  a  frolic  than  a  brunt  to  bad  feeling,  or 
a  taste  for  alcohol. 

He  was  not  in  a  humour  for  fun,  so  he 
sat  by,  sullen  and  unhappy,  listening  to 
the  gossip,  political  and  social,  until  the 
dusky  red  of  twilight  sent  the  gossipers 
on  their  homeward  way.  Still  he  lingered, 
loath  to  return  to  his  desolate  hearth,  shorn 
as  it  was  of  the  bright  dreams  that  had 
been  his  fireside  friends  of  late. 

It  was  past  nine  when  he  rode  down 
the  valley.  Far  before  him  he  saw  the 
round,  red  eye  which  he  knew  to  be  the 
doctor's  window,  through  which  the  min- 
gled glow  of  lamp  and  firelight  streamed 
out  upon  the  night  and  sent  its  good, 
glad  glow  far  down  the  valley ;  a  guide  to 
the  benighted,  a  promise  to  the  wanderer 
pushing  homeward  through  the  darkness. 

Something  in  its  brightness  appealed 
to  Joe ;  there  came  to  him  a  feeling  that 
the  world  was  not,  after  all,  so  desolately 


164  The  Valley  Path 

cheerless  as  he  had  fancied.  He  followed 
the  tiny  ray  without  realising  it  for  a 
while ;  thinking,  without  realising  it,  just 
how  good  the  warmth  must  be  within 
that  little  valley  home ;  how  dark  out- 
side, and  how  cold.  His  horse's  hoofs 
struck  the  frozen  earth  with  a  harshness 
that  seemed  to  ring  and  vibrate.  The 
contrast  suddenly  opened  about  and  faced 
him,  —  their  two  lives,  the  difference  of 
surroundings,  the  warmth  within  where  he 
was,  the  blackness  of  night  which  accom- 
panied him.  Yet  he  did  not  care  for  these 
things ;  he  was  not  so  small  as  that.  But 
that  this  man,  with  all  the  favour  of  for- 
tune, with  ease,  comfort,  everything, — 
that  he  should  seek  to  rob  him,  had 
robbed  him  of  the  one  single  flower  that 
had  ever  lifted  its  face  to  gladden  the 
humble  path  where  fate  had  set  him 
down,  —  this  was  the  sting,  this  was  the 
injustice  which  rankled  and  burned  and 
turned  his  natural  goodness  to  hate. 
"  He  ain't  fittin'  ter  live,"  he  muttered, 


The  Valley  Path  165 

between  his  strong,  set  teeth.  "  He  ain't 
fittin'  ter  be  let  live.  If  I  ware  ter  aim 
a  bullet  square  at  that  red  pane  o'  win- 
der, 'twould  find  his  gray  head  straight  as 
straight.  An'  it  air  no  more  than  he 
deserves,  a  bullet  ain't.  But  I  ain't  that 
low,  I  reckin,  to  shoot  a  man  in  the  back. 
Naw,  Lord  !  if  I  kill  a  bird  I  let  it  git  the 
start.  I'll  be  as  gen'rous  ter  a  man  as 
I  am  ter  a  pa'tridge,  though  he  ain't  as 
deservin'." 

He  still  carried  his  gun  slung  across 
the  saddle-bow,  and  the  red  pane  drew 
nearer,  seemed  to  grow,  to  expand,  until 
eighteen  small  square  panes  took  shape, 
every  pane  aglow,  and  beyond  them  the 
doctor's  large  gray  head,  resting  upon  his 
hand,  his  elbow  upon  the  table  near  which 
he  sat  reading. 

The  devil  whispered  in  Joe's  ear  a  das- 
tardly thing ;  a  thing  too  cowardly  mean 
for  the  eye  of  God's  good  daylight.  Only 
under  cover  of  night  could  such  a  deed 
find  birth.  But  it  came  so  sharp  and 


1 66  The  Valley  Path 

strong  and  sudden,  was  so  irresistibly  fas- 
cinating, so  fiendishly  fraught  with  the 
sweetness  of  revenge  complete,  that  he 
had  no  time  to  meet  the  terrible  tempta- 
tion. He  forgot  his  consideration  for 
the  "  bird  ;  "  forgot  his  manhood,  every- 
thing but  the  rank  revenge  that  for  the 
moment  robbed  him  of  his  reason. 

Quick  as  a  flash  he  lifted  the  gun  to 
his  shoulder  and  took  aim ;  his  keen  eye 
flashed  along  the  muzzle  for  a  single 
instant ;  his  finger  pressed  the  trigger, 
which  refused  to  act ;  an  instant  yet,  and 
the  gray  head  was  lifted ;  the  calmly  gen- 
tle face  turned  as  though  to  catch  a  sound 
for  which  the  ear  had  waited ;  then  the 
figure  vanished. 

The  next  moment  the  door  opened, 
and  from  it  came  a  stream  of  crimson 
light  that  lay  aslant  the  darkness  like  a 
path  of  fire.  In  the  very  centre  of  it 
stood  the  doctor,  erect  and  fearless. 
What  a  target  against  the  light,  as  he 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  door,  his  arms 


The  Valley  Path  167 

outspread,  resting  a  hand  on  either  cas- 
ing !  Joe  uttered  an  oath,  and  dropped 
his  gun  with  a  sudden  snap  that  brought 
the  hammer  of  the  old-fashioned  weapon 
down  upon  his  finger  clumsily  feeling  for 
the  cock.  The  noise  of  his  horse's  hoofs 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  drums  beating 
furiously.  Suddenly  the  doctor  put  his 
hands  to  his  mouth  and  hailed : 

"  O  Joe  !  Bowen  !  "  The  only  evi- 
dence that  Joe  heard  was  the  sudden 
silence  as  the  rider  brought  his  horse  to 
a  standstill.  The  physician  accepted  the 
silence  for  attention.  "  Come  by,"  said 
he.  "  Stop  ;  I  want  to  see  you." 

It  was  an  instance  of  the  incomprehen- 
sible power  of  will,  the  stronger  over  the 
weaker.  The  very  attitude  of  the  man 
standing  there  defying  danger,  the  mere 
tone  of  voice,  all  had  about  it  that  which 
compelled  obedience. 

Joe  hesitated  an  instant  only,  then 
wheeled  his  horse  into  the  footpath  lead- 
ing to  the  doctor's  gate. 


1 68  The  Valley  Path 

The  physician  stood  in  the  doorway 
while  his  visitor  twisted  his  bridle  into 
the  iron  ring  dangling  from  the  hitching- 
post,  which  few  callers  ever  saw,  the  limbs 
of  the  trees  being  more  familiar  to  the 
service.  He  came  up  the  walk,  gun  in 
hand,  his  long,  gaunt  shadow  growing 
longer  and  more  gaunt  with  every  step 
towards  the  light. 

"  Come  in ;  walk  right  in  there  to  the 
fire;  you  must  be  half  frozen.  Nobody 
there  but  Zip  ;  Zip  and  I  are  making  our- 
selves comfortable  after  our  own  ideas. 
Do  likewise ;  do  likewise.  I  will  join 
you  in  just  a  minute." 

Scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  and  in- 
wardly cursing  himself  for  "  a  dad-blamed 
fool,"  Bowen  obeyed.  The  room  was 
tempting ;  the  doctor  himself  was  tempt- 
ing; even  the  terrier  curled  up  on  the 
hair  sofa  looked  up  with  an  air  which 
said,  "  Well,  now,  we  are  comfortable." 
There  was  a  homefulness  about  it  all  that 
invited  confidence. 


The  Valley  Path  169 

In  a  moment  the  doctor  returned. 
The  first  object  to  arrest  his  eye  was  the 
old  flintlock  rifle  leaning  against  the  wall ; 
the  next  moment  he  saw  the  hand  resting 
upon  Joe's  knee,  with  the  blood  slowly 
oozing  from  a  wound  in  the  right  fore- 
finger. 

"  Why,  man,"  said  the  physician, 
"  you  have  wounded  yourself.  Wheel 
about  to  the  light  and  let  us  have  a  look 
at  it.  Sure  it  isn't  another  case  of  hornet 
sting  ? " 

The  guilty  crimson  swept  the  boyish 
face,  turned  for  a  moment  to  the  lamplight. 
He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  wounded 
hand,  so  much  sharper  had  been  the  hurt 
in  the  heart. 

"I  reckin  it  ain't  much,"  he  said,  with 
sullen  indifference,  making  an  effort  to 
conceal  the  bleeding  member  under  the 
palm  of  the  other. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  said  the  doctor, 
"this  will  not  do.  Put  it  out  here;  that 
is  what  I  am  here  for.  You  wouldn't 


170  The  Valley  Path 

cheat  an  old  man  out  of  his  trade,  would 
you  ?  Give  me  your  hand,  boy." 

He  had  been  arranging  a  few  simple 
implements  while  he  talked,  —  a  case  of 
steels,  a  sheet  of  plaster,  a  roll  of  soft, 
starchless  linen  lay  on  the  table. 

Joe  eyed  him  sullenly.  Suddenly  he 
rose ;  his  tall,  straight  figure  towered 
above  the  other  like  the  figure  of  a  young 
Goliath.  His  eyes  flashed,  and  from  the 
uplifted  wounded  finger  drops  of  bright 
red  blood  trickled  the  length  of  his  hand, 
disappearing  under  his  sleeve. 

"Damn  you!"  he  hissed.  "Say  out 
what  you've  got  to  say ;  I  ain't  here  to 
fool  an'  palaver  with  you-uns.  I  see  you 
at  that  thar  table  when  I  rid  up,  an'  I 
ware  tempted  to  put  a  bullet  into  you.  I 
had  my  gun  aimed,  cocked,  when  you 
moved  off  out  of  range.  An'  the  damn 
thing  snapped,  ketchin'  of  my  finger. 
That's  how  come  the  wound  you're  beg- 
gin'  leave  ter  patch  up.  An'  it  ware  me 
killed  your  horse,  the  fine  colt.  I  done  it 


The  Valley  Path  171 

to  make  sure  you'd  never  saddle  Lissy 
Reams  on  to  hit,  like  you  done  on  t'other 
one.  An'  it  ware  me  —  oh,  damn  it  all ! 
Git  up  from  thar  an'  kick  me  out.  Or 
else  come  outside  an'  fight  it  out  like  men 
fight.  An'  if  you  whip  me  you  may  take 
the  gal  an'  go  to  the  devil,  an'  I'll  quit 
the  country.  But  don't,  in  God  A'mighty's 
name,  set  thar  saaft-sawderin'  o'  me.  I 
can't  take  it,  an'  I  won't." 

The  doctor  slowly  rose ;  he  was  trem- 
bling. Afraid?  For  an  instant  Joe  thought 
so.  Only  for  an  instant,  however ;  until 
he  saw  the  face  of  the  man.  There  was 
no  agitation  in  the  calm  eyes,  although  the 
hand  which  he  rested  upon  the  table  to 
steady  himself  shook. 

"The  man  who  would  fight  with  me," 
said  he,  in  slow,  even  accents,  "  must  con- 
tent himself  with  a  very  one-sided  battle. 
And  the  coward  lying  for  my  life  like  a 
thief  outside  my  window,  under  cover  of 
night  and  of  darkness,  will  not  find  lack 
of  opportunity  for  taking  it.  The  day 


172  The  Valley  Path' 

has  never  dawned  that  found  me  afraid 
to  die.  To  the  honest  man,  always,  death 
is  only  a  part  of  life's  plan,  and,  let  it  come 
when  and  as  it  will,  can  neither  alter  nor 
affect  that  plan. 

"To  me  life  has  never  held  an  hour 
that  found  me  unwilling  to  lay  it  down ; 
seldom  brought  a  gift  so  fair  that  I  have 
sighed  for  its  renunciation.  Do  you  sup- 
pose that  I  am  afraid  of  you  ?  or  any  man? 
That  I  would  have  moved  my  head  the 
fraction  of  an  inch  to  dodge  your  coward- 
bullet  ?  Do  the  old,  you  think,  find  life 
so  full,  its  happiness  so  vast,  that  they 
hug  it  like  a  miser  his  gold  ?  Sometimes, 
perhaps,  but  it  is  where  ties  are  many  and 
love  has  outlived  years.  Not  so  with 
me ;  I  am  an  old  man  as  compared  with 
you :  the  fifty  years  that  have  slipped  the 
measure  in  my  glass  were  not  so  many 
grains  of  gold  to  dazzle  and  amuse,  but 
so  much  of  good  life  and  strength  stripped 
from  the  old  shell  called  manhood.  Sit 
down  there.  I  want  to  tell  you  a  story ; 


The  Valley  Path  173 

having  told  it,  you  know  where  your  gun 
is  ;  and  the  window  will  not  be  closed.  Sit 
down,  man ;  don't  be  a  fool,  if  you  can 
help  it." 

He  forced  him  to  the  chair  again,  and 
again  began  to  adjust  his  surgical  instru- 
ments. 

"  Give  me  your  hand ;  now,  while  I 
patch  this  hole  up,  all  I  ask  of  you  is  to 
listen.  I  have  always  refused  to  believe 
you  a  coward.  It  remains  to  be  seen 
whether  or  not  you  are  the  fool  your 
recent  conduct  would  argue." 

Accustomed  to  the  sick,  he  had  long 
ago  learned  to  exact  obedience  of  his 
patients.  This  man  was  as  truly  his  pa- 
tient as  if  he  were  suffering  some  acute 
disease  of  the  body.  And  as  such  he 
treated  him.  The  dark  face  lost  some- 
thing of  its  angry  defiance,  while  the 
restless  eyes  furtively  followed  the  deft 
fingers  patting  a  bit  of  plaster  upon  the 
ugly  pinch  the  rifle  had  made  in  the  long 
forefinger.  There  was  seductive  sweet- 


174  The  Valley  Path 

ness  in  the  voice  that  pronounced  him  "a 
fool,"  a  something  that  soothed  even 
while  it  condemned.  Before  the  doctor 
had  proceeded  well  into  his  story  Joe 
began  to  suspect  that  he  was  right;  that 
he  was  "a  fool." 

"  I  find,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  in 
order  to  get  your  thoughts  at  rest  I  must 
tell  you  a  little  story  that  concerns  chiefly 
myself.  I  had  hoped  that  it  was  buried 
for  ever,  or  until  the  last  resurrection  of 
all  pain.  I  am  an  old  man  at  fifty,  older 
than  you  will  be  at  seventy.  At  twenty 
I  left  college ;  at  twenty-two  was  a  prac- 
tising physician.  That  I  made  success  of 
my  profession,  no  one  ever  denied.  Life 
held  fair  promises  for  me.  I  was  not  a 
Christian,  as  the  world  accepts  the  term. 
I  denied  many  things,  doubted  more,  that 
orthodoxy  accepted.  Mine  is  an  open  na- 
ture, and  I  saw  no  reason  for  concealment ; 
so  that  everybody  who  knew  me  knew  my 
creed,  if  I  had  one.  That  I  have  done 
some  good  the  poor  will  bear  witness  at 


The  Valley  Path  175 

the  last.  If  I  have  harmed  any  man  I  do 
not  know  it.  I  made  myself  a  place  and 
practice.  At  last  there  came  into  my  life 
a  being  who  changed  its  current;  awoke 
the  heart  within  me ;  played  upon  its 
every  string ;  sounded  every  depth,  knew 
every  shallow,  of  my  nature.  It  was  at 
the  bedside  of  her  dying  father  that  we 
first  met ;  we  became  lovers,  plighted  our 
troth,  were  soon  to  have  been  married. 
She  was  poor ;  I  had  plenty.  That  she 
was  influenced  by  my  wealth  was  a  thought 
too  insulting  to  have  lodging  in  the  same 
heart  that  held  her.  If  I  found  her 
lacking  in  demonstration  of  affection,  I 
attributed  it  to  maiden  modesty  and  was 
content.  She  was  a  Christian,  after  the 
favoured  order.  There  was  in  her  family 
a  cousin,  a  reckless  young  fellow,  who 
hung  about  her  some,  but  of  whom  I  had 
as  little  jealousy  as  I  have,  or  might  have, 
of  my  terrier  asleep  there  on  my  couch. 

"  My  wedding-day  was  fixed  ;  was  near ; 
but   two  days  gaped  between  my  happi- 


i  y6  The  Valley  Path 

ness  and  me.  My  best  man  was  an  old 
college  chum  whom  I  had  lifted  out  of 
debt,  saved  from  disgrace  once,  and  given 
many  a  turn  along  the  way.  The  day 
before  that  fixed  for  my  marriage  I  met 
him,  but  when  I  would  have  greeted  him 
he  turned  his  face  away.  Was  he  angry, 
drunk?  I  crossed  the  street  and  faced 
him  ;  he  was  laughing.  He  looked  so 
guilty,  Bowen,  so  vulgarly  guilty,  that 
with  my  left  I  grasped  my  right  hand  in 
order  not  to  strike  him  down.  It  was 
only  for  an  instant,  however ;  in  a  twink- 
ling he  was  himself  again.  But  for  the 
life  of  me  I  couldn't  rest.  I  felt  that  I 
had  done  my  friend  injustice.  I  sought 
him  out  again  before  the  day  was  done, 
and  made  my  full  apology.  Then,  f  Jack,' 
said  I,  cgo  down  and  select  my  ties  for 
me.  You've  got  good  taste  about  such 
things.' 

"cOh,  let  the  ties  be,  Doc,'  was  his 
reply;  c  there's  time  enough.  I'll  see  to 
them,  old  boy,  —  in  time' 


The  Valley  Path  177 

"  That  night  I  called  on  Alice.  I  never 
saw  her  half  so  radiant,  so  superbly  lovely. 
I  was  all  happiness ;  one  thing  only  came 
between  my  joy  and  me.  She  refused  my 
good-night  kiss.  I  left  her  early :  she 
wanted  her  c  beauty  sleep,'  she  said.  And 
since  it  was  her  last  day  of  girlhood  I  re- 
signed her  to  herself,  knowing  it  was  the 
last  time.  When  I  reached  my  room  I 
read  a  chapter  from  a  little  velvet  Bible, 
her  gift,  which,  to  please  her,  I  had  prom- 
ised to  read  daily. 

"  The  following  morning  I  went  early 
to  my  office ;  the  few  acquaintances  I  met 
upon  the  street  dodged  me,  —  unmistak- 
ably dodged  me. 

"As  I  was  passing  the  house  of  a  man 
who  had  been  my  father's  friend  and  as 
stanchly  mine,  I  saw  him  open  the  door 
and  come  down  the  walk  to  the  gate.  I 
said  good-morning  from  across  the  street, 
and  would  have  passed  on,  but  that  he 
called  me : 

" (  Come  in,'  said  he.     *  I  wish  to  see 


1 78  The  Valley  Path 

you ;  have  been  watching  at  the  window 
for  you.' 

"  I  crossed  over  and  went  in.  I  re- 
member that  the  sun  shone,  and  that 
there  were  scarlet  gladiolus  blooming 
in  the  window,  although  it  was  bitter 
cold. 

"  He  led  me  in,  motioned  to  a  chair, 
himself  took  one,  and  then  I  saw  his  face. 
Some  dreadful  thing  had  happened.  I 
waited  for  him  to  go  on. 

" c  Bart,'  said  he,  ( I  had  rather  cut  my 
tongue  out  than  to  tell  you  — ' 

" c  Is  something  wrong  ? '  said  I.  f  Tell 
me ;  let  me  help  you  if  I  can.' 

"  He  motioned  me  to  silence.  c  The 
trouble,'  said  he,  f  is  not  mine,  but  yours.' 

a<Mine?' 

'  " £  Brace  yourself  to  hear  it,'  said  he. 
£  It  isn't  a  sweet  duty  to  dash  a  man's 
happiness  to  death,  to  crush  both  pride 
and  joy  at  a  blow.' 

"  He  was  sparring,  as  he  thought,  mer- 
cifully. But  I  cut  him  off.  c  Tell  me,' 


The  Valley  Path  179 

said  I ;  c  I'm  not  a  child.  What  is  it  that 
has  happened  ? ' 

"  It  was  Alice ;  she  had  run  away  the 
night  before,  eloped,  and  been  married  to 
her  cousin. 

"  Bowen,  it  struck  me  like  an  iron 
hammer.  My  head  dropped  on  my 
breast  like  lead ;  my  heart,  that  had  held 
warm  blood,  turned  to  ice  while  I  listened 
to  the  story  of  her  falseness,  my  shame, 
and  my  betrayal  by  my  friend ;  for  Jack 
was  one  of  the  attendants  and  witnesses ; 
had  helped  her  to  elude  me ;  gone  with 
her  upon  her  midnight  visit  to  a  little 
village  clergyman,  who  had  married  the 
runaways.  I  heard  it  all,  the  shameful, 
cruel  story,  and  then  I  roused  myself  to 
meet  my  fate,  scarcely  harder  to  encoun- 
ter than  the  smiles  or  the  unspoken 
sympathy,  as  it  chanced,  from  those  who 
saw  the  humour  or  the  pathos  of  the 
situation.  There  was  one  who  saw  the 
tragedy ,  —  my  mother,  —  and  it  killed 
her. 


i8o  The  Valley  Path 

"  I  heard  the  story  through  and  then  I 
lifted  my  head. 

"'It's  pretty  hard,'  I  said,  'but  I  think 
that  I  can  bear  it.' 

"He  grasped  my  hand,  pressed  it,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"  I  went  to  my  room  with  head  erect ; 
I  greeted  my  friends  along  the  way. 
They  looked  at  me  as  if  they  thought 
me  mad. 

"  Opening  my  door,  the  first  thing  met 
my  eye  was  the  little  velvet  Bible,  open 
where  I  had  read  the  night  before.  I 
took  it  in  my  hand,  glanced  down  at  the 
open  page  where  she  had  traced  a  text, — 
f  And  the  truth  shall  make  you  free ',' —  and 
tossed  it  in  the  fire.  I  have  never  opened 
one  since  then,  not  from  that  day  to  this. 
I  got  into  my  buggy,  visited  my  patients 
all  day,  at  night  went  home,  stealing  in 
softly  so  that  my  mother  need  not  be  dis- 
turbed. But  she  was  waiting ;  had  waited 
for  me  all  the  day.  She  saw  my  face 
and  read  my  heart.  The  smile,  the  quiet, 


The  Valley  Path  181 

matter-of-fact  manner  that  had  bewildered 
my  friends  were  not  needed  here.  She 
put  her  arms  around  my  neck  and  fainted. 
She  alone  knew  how  one  woman's  perfidy 
had  made  shipwreck  of  a  strong  man's 
tottering  faith.  Trouble  comes  in  bat- 
talions :  I  buried  my  mother  in  less  than 
a  year.  I  lived  on  there,  though  friends 
urged  me,  having  my  own  comfort  at 
heart,  to  go  elsewhere ;  every  feeling  in 
my  nature  rebelled  against  cowardly  flight. 
I  remained  until  I  proved  myself  equal  to 
my  destiny. 

"  It  is  almost  thirty  years  since  I  passed 
down  the  steps  of  my  friend's  house  that 
crisp,  cold  morning,  and  went  out  to  face 
ridicule,  and  the  pity  that  was  scarcely 
less  difficult  to  bear.  I  remember  that 
the  sun  shone,  and  that  the  scarlet  glad- 
iolus were  frozen  stiff  against  the  window- 
pane.  They  looked  like  spots  of  clotted 
blood  against  the  frosted  glass.  I  thought 
of  them  when  I  saw  your  wounded  hand 
to-night. 


1 82  The  Valley  Path 

"  Come  :  you  have  my  story  ;  the  true 
heart  has  but  its  one,  ever." 

The  clock  above  the  mantel  monoto- 
nously ticked  off  the  time ;  the  wounded 
hand,  sponged  and  bound,  lay  on  the 
doctor's  knee ;  the  strong,  clear  profile 
of  the  guest  shone  with  cameo  effect 
against  the  crimson  firelight  as  the  owner 
turned  his  face  from  the  physician's.  Sud- 
denly he  faced  him ;  in  the  clear  depths 
of  his  eyes,  lately  so  defiant,  the  tears 
shone  like  drops  of  crystal. 

"  And  you  didn't  kill  him  ? "  he  said, 
— "  you  didn't  kill  him  like  you  would 
kill  a  dog?" 

"  No,  he  lives  yet;  she  is  dead,  though, 
years  ago." 

"You  ought  ter  'a'  killed  him.  He 
ware  not  fittin'  to  live." 

"  Would  his  death  have  restored  to  me 
that  which  her  untruth  had  lost  me, — 
my  peace,  my  faith,  my  mother  ? " 

"Well,  no,"  said  Joe,  "but  I'd  'a' 
killed  him.  I'd  'a'  had  my  satisfaction 
that  far." 


The  Valley  Path  183 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  I  chose  the 
better  part,  I  hope.  Love  isn't  quite 
all  of  life ;  though  it  is  so  nearly  all 
that  we  sometimes  make  the  mistake  of 
thinking  it  quite  so.  That  is,  we  who 
feel  intensely.  For  me,  I  gathered  my 
burden  to  my  shoulders  as  best  I  could, 
and  for  thirty  years  almost  I  have  stum- 
bled along  with  it  in  the  dark.  In  the 
dark !  Ah,  that  is  the  hardest  part  of 
pain :  that  he  who  bears  her  company 
must,  at  the  starting,  turn  his  back  upon 
the  light.  So  I  have  travelled  with  her 
all  these  weary  years,  in  the  dark.  But, 
Bowen,— " 

He  leaned  forward,  placing  a  hand 
upon  either  knee  of  his  visitor,  compel- 
ling his  strict  attention,  —  "I  resolved, 
with  God's  help  and  man's  strength,  that 
I  would  never  be  the  despoiler  of  any 
man's  happiness.  That  is  why  I  called 
you  in  to-night." 

He  got  up  hastily,  and  began  to  walk 
the  floor.  Joe  regarded  him  steadily 


1 84  The  Valley  Path 

a  moment;  then  he,  too,  arose.  His 
strong  young  face  bore  index  to  the 
brave  young  heart  beneath  it;  shame, 
sympathy,  regret,  and  the  courage  of 
acknowledgment,  all  were  visible  in  the 
bold,  brown  features  lifted  to  the  light. 

"Doctor  Borin',"  he  said,  "I  have 
been  a  fool ;  I  have  been  a  great  fool. 
I'd  like  to  ask  yo'  — " 

"It  was  granted  long  ago,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Look  at  the  clock,  —  twelve. 
That  is  your  candle  on  the  mantel.  Aunt 
Dike  built  your  fire  two  hours  ago." 

The  mountaineer  regarded  him  stu- 
pidly ;  he  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  the 
rehearsal  of  his  wrongs  had  unsettled  the 
man's  mind. 

"  If  Zip  don't  min'  lettin'  me  have  that 
hat  o'  mine  he's  made  his  bed  in,  I'm 
goin'  home,"  said  Joe.  "  I  reckin  my  nag 
is  in  an'  about  froze  by  this  time." 

"  Your  horse  has  been  in  the  stable  for 
hours;  ever  since  you  came.  You  are  not 
going  away  from  here  to-night.  The  guest- 


The  Valley  Path  185 

chamber  is  waiting  for  you.  We  are  to 
be  friends  from  this  on,  Joe.  We  will 
begin  by  your  sharing  my  roof  to-night." 

He  was  lighting  the  candle  as  he 
spoke ;  when  he  held  it  to  the  moun- 
taineer the  latter  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  he.  Then,  with  sud- 
den vehemence,  "  I  tell  you,  Doctor 
Borin',  I  ain't  fittin'  ter  be  yo'  friend. 
I  want  ter  be,  but,  O  Lord  !  —  I  tell 
you  I  ain't  fittin'.  First,  you  must  take 
my  horse  for  the  one  I  killed." 

"  We  will  talk  about  that  to-morrow," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  No,  sir,  to-night,  now.  You  must 
promise  to  take  my  horse ;  he's  a  good 
one,  an'  I'm  fond  of  him.  But  I'll  feel 
like  a  thief,  an'  a  sneak-thief  at  that, 
unless  you  say  you'll  take  him.  He's 
in  your  stable,  thar  he  stays,  an'  we're 
even.  Be  it  so  ?  " 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Good ;  gimme  my  light ;  though  I 
ain't  sayin'  as  I  don't  feel  like  a  blamed 


1 86  The  Valley  Path 

fool,  an'  a  horse  thief,  an'  Brother  Barry, 
all  at  once." 

He  thundered  up  the  stair,  spilling  the 
hot  sperm  upon  the  linen  bandage  that 
enwrapped  his  wounded  hand.  The  phy- 
sician sat  a  long  while  before  the  fire,  his 
head  dropped  forward  in  the  weary  way 
that  had  come  to  him  of  late. 

"A  disturber  of  no  man's  peace,"  he 
said,  softly,  as  he  bent  to  lay  a  shovelful 
of  ashes  on  the  dying  coals.  "  A  spoiler 
of  no  man's  happiness.  No  man  can 
charge  me  with  that.  Yet  I  could  have 
won  her,  —  she  is  very  gentle,  and  pliable, 
and  sympathetic;  I  could  have  —  won." 
The  white  ashes  grew  cold,  shifted,  and  fell 
apart  while  he  sat  there,  head  bowed, 
hands  folded,  lost  in  thought.  When 
the  clock  upon  the  mantel  struck  three 
he  started,  rose,  and  shook  himself. 
"  And  now,"  said  he,  "  there  is  nothing 
left  but  to  turn  down  the  page."  Alas ! 
turning  down  the  page  does  not  always 
ensure  forgetting. 


The  Valley  Path  187 

He  turned  off  his  lamp  and  crept  into 
bed.  The  moonlight  through  the  window 
where  he  had  failed  to  drop  the  curtain 
fell  upon  his  face  while  he  slept ;  gently, 
a  caress  in  each  silvery  beam,  as  if  they 
would  have  smoothed  the  lines  that  grief 
had  traced  upon  his  brow,  and  comforted 
him. 

When  he  awoke  the  sun  shone,  and  his 
guest  was  gone. 

"Tromped  off  befo'  breakfus,"  said 
Ephraim,  "  leavin'  his  black  horse  in  de 
stable." 

The  presence  of  the  horse  confirmed  the 
presence  of  his  master,  which  in  the  good 
light  of  day  the  doctor  was  for  an  instant 
disposed  to  regard  as  a  part  of  the  night's 
dreams  ;  it  gave  the  stamp  of  genuineness 
to  Joe's  regret  for  past  unfriendliness. 

Later  in  the  day  Lissy  stopped  at  the 
gate  to  ask  the  doctor  to  go  up  and  see 
Lucy  Ann's  baby. 

"  It's  real  bad  off,"  she  declared,  "  with 
the  measles." 


1 88  The  Valley  Path 

It  was  such  a  message  as  she  brought 
any  day,  yet  she  was  awkward  and  slow 
in  delivering  it,  and  he  noticed  that  the 
gray  eyes  refused  to  meet  his  with  their 
old-time  frankness. 

Joe's  jealousy  had  revealed  the  physi- 
cian in  a  new  light ;  the  mere  suspicion 
of  love  had  poisoned  the  perfect  friend- 
ship. 

"  Are  you  going  back  up  there  ?  "  said 
the  doctor. 

"  I  can  go  if  you  want  to  send  some- 
thin',"  she  replied,  "but  I'll  have  to 
hurry  back  home  again."  It  was  the 
first  time  since  he  had  known  her  that 
she  had  not  found  time  to  devote  to  the 
sick. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can  go  up,  though 
I  am  a  little  busy.  It  is  a  tiresome  walk, 
and  you  have  taken  it  once  this  morning. 
Moreover,  you  seem  to  be  as  busy  as  I." 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
stepped  into  the  trap  he  set  for  her. 

"  It  ain't  anything  but  can  wait  as  well 


The  Valley  Path  189 

as  not,"  she  insisted.  "An'  I  don't 
mind  the  walk  a  bit.  I'm  strong  an' 
young.  You  better  send  me  in  yo' 
stead." 

She  had  not  meant  to  hurt  him,  he 
knew  it.  He  knew  that  to  her  the  years 
that  lay  between  them  were  as  nothing. 
Yet  her  words  hurt.  He  began  to  see 
how  old  he  must  appear  to  other  people ; 
began  to  see  himself  that  he  was  an  old 
man ;  "  an  old  fool,"  he  said,  "  so  old 
that  even  Joe  Bowen  had  comprehended 
at  last  the  folly  of  being  jealous  of  such 
an  ancient."  But  there  he  did  himself 
and  Joe  injustice.  That  gentleman  had 
never  discovered  any  reason  on  earth  why 
the  doctor  should  not  love  and  marry 
Alicia,  save  that  he  wanted  her  for  him- 
self. Joe's  was  a  primitive  faith.  To 
his  thinking,  love  could  come  but  once. 
And  this  love  of  the  doctor's,  with  its 
tincture  of  tragedy,  must,  according  to 
his  idea,  for  ever  disbar  the  heart  where 
it  had  been  harboured  against  all  meaner 


190  The  Valley  Path 

passions.  That  first  love  is  all-love  is 
not  always  granted  by  those  more  worldly 
wise  than  Joe.  But  with  him  it  was  not 
a  question  of  will ;  he  had  failed  to  catch 
the  finer  point  of  honour  with  which  the 
physician  meant  to  pledge  himself,  in  an 
unspoken  promise,  not  to  interfere  with 
his  love  affair.  To  him  it  was  simply  an 
impossibility ;  as  much  so  as  the  new 
growth  of  a  limb  that  has  been  amputated 
from  the  human  body.  With  him  love 
had  no  second  birth.  A  primitive  faith, 
and,  like  other  primitive  beliefs,  gone  to 
find  a  grave  in  the  cobwebbed  past. 

Alicia  refused  to  "  come  in,"  but  said 
"  good-mornin' "  in  the  stiffest  way,  and 
went  home. 

"Anybody  would  think,  to  see  her," 
mused  the  doctor,  "  that  I  had  robbed 
her  hen-roost,  or  refused  to  pay  my  truck 
bill." 

The  coming  of  Mrs.  Tucker,  a  few 
minutes  later,  changed  the  current  of  his 
thought : 


The  Valley  Path  191 

"  Doctor  Borin',"  she  began,  "  I  reckin 
I  pester  you  a  heap  with  my  troubles.  I 
reckin  we  all  pester  you,  right  smart." 

"  Sit  down  there  by  the  fire,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  and  while  you  are  thawing  tell 
me  what  the  *  trouble  '  is  this  time.  What 
is  a  physician  for,  if  not  to  listen  to  the 
ailings  of  his  patients  ?  " 

She  took  the  chair  he  placed  for  her, 
and,  pushing  back  the  familiar  black  bon- 
net, said : 

"  Doctor  Borin',  I  have  come  down 
here  to  ax  you  for  a  settlemint.  I  reckin 
the  interest  on  my  debt  to  you  will  in 
an'  about  eat  me  out  o'  house  an'  home. 
You  air  a  town  doctor,  but  a  mighty  good 
one.  I  ain't  faultin'  of  you  for  bein'  a 
town  man ;  you  couldn't  holp  that.  But 
I  have  heard  say  town  men  axed  mighty 
high  for  theirse'ves,  an'  I'm  a  po'  woman. 
But  I'm  honest;  an'  you'll  git  yo'  pay, 
Doctor  Borin',  if  I  have  to  sell  my  house 
an'  bit  o'  Ian'  for  it.  I've  come  down  here 
to  tell  you  so,  an'  ter  ax  for  a  settlemint." 


192  The  Valley  Path 

"  Haven't  time  to-day,"  laughed  the 
doctor.  "  Besides,  I  have  a  new  patient 
at  your  house.  Wait  until  I  cure  the 
baby,  then  we'll  bunch  the  debts  and 
make  one  of  them.  I  want  you  to  take 
some  medicine  up  to  Lucy  Ann ;  and  see 
that  the  measles  don't  'go  in,'  and  that 
the  baby  doesn't  take  cold.  No,  it  isn't 
any  use  to  try  to  pin  me  down  to  arithme- 
tic to-day.  I  am  going  down  to  Pelham 
to  call  on  Joe  Bowen ;  he  promised  to  let 
me  have  a  load  of  hay  for  my  horse." 

He  saw  the  worried  expression  come 
into  her  eyes,  and  gave  up  teasing. 

"  Wait,"  he  said.  "  How  much  do  I 
owe  you  ? " 

She  was  an  honest  trader,  a  careful 
accountant. 

"  You  owe  me,"  she  replied,  in  a  slow, 
businesslike  way,  "two  dollars  an'  seventy- 
five  cents.  I  owe  you  —  " 

"  I  am  keeping  my  side  of  the  account," 
he  interrupted  her  to  say.  "  You  look  to 
yours." 


The  Valley  Path  193 

"I  am  gittin'  to  be  an  ol'  woman,  Doc- 
tor Bonn',"  she  continued,  "an'  I  want  to 
leave  myse'f  square  with  the  world  when 
I  come  ter  quit  it.  I  owe  you  so  much 
that  I've  been  a'most  afeard  ter  ax  you 
how  much  it  air.  But  I've  saved  up  a 
little  money  ter  he'p  pay  you,  anyhow,  an' 
I'm  proper  glad  to  git  you  ter  talk  about 
it  at  last.  That  two  dollars  an'  seventy- 
five  cents  —  " 

"  There  it  is,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  am 
putting  it  into  your  egg  basket,  since  you 
do  not  seem  to  see  it.  And  now,  my 
good  woman,  we  are  square.  That  is  our 
settlement." 

She  stared  first  at  him,  then  at  the 
silver  he  had  slipped  into  her  basket. 

"But,  Doctor  Borin',"  she  began,  when 
he  again  interrupted  her : 

"  Bring  me  some  more  chickens ;  if 
I  haven't  emptied  your  roost." 

She  understood  at  last,  and  went  out, 
silent,  the  tears  in  her  eyes  and  in  her 
throat,  choking  her. 


194  The  Valley  Path 

The  next  morning  Lissy  came  down 
to  the  gate  and  sent  for  him  to  come 
out.  Al  was  sick ;  he  had  been  taken 
with  a  chill  the  night  before,  and  she  had 
wished  to  come  for  him  then,  but  her 
grandmother  was  opposed  to  it.  She  had 
given  him  a  quantity  of  pepper  tea  and 
had  put  him  to  bed,  to  wait  for  the  herb 
doctor. 

"  He's  real  sick,  Doctor  Borin',"  Alicia 
continued,  "  an'  I  wish  you  would  go  over 
an'  see  him  befo'  the  herb  doctor  gets 
there." 

"  I  cannot  do  that,  Lissy,"  he  replied ; 
"  but  if  you  will  come  in  I  will  fill  some 
quinine  capsules  for  Al.  But  you  must 
come  in  the  house.  I  shall  not  touch 
them  if  you  insist  upon  hanging  on  my 
gate-post  for  half  an  hour  in  the  cold." 

She  hesitated,  blushing.  It  did  not 
appear  altogether  proper  for  her  to  go  in 
alone,  and  no  woman  there  but  an  old 
negress.  While  she  hesitated  he  opened 
the  gate  and  led  her  in,  up  the  walk,  into 


The  Valley  Path  195 

the  little  sitting-room  where  patients  and 
other  visitors  came  every  day,  almost  every 
hour  of  the  day. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
has  come  over  you,  child  ? "  he  asked, 
fretfully,  in  order  to  disguise  the  pleasure 
he  felt  in  having  her  once  more  sitting 
opposite  him  at  his  own  hearth.  "  You're 
getting  tired  of  the  old  hospital,  Lissy ; 
I  just  know  that's  it.  And  everybody  else 
in  the  neighbourhood  likes  it,  likes  to 
come  here.  Mrs.  Tucker  sat  an  hour, 
only  yesterday." 

His  words  and  manner  quite  reassured 
her.  After  all,  she  was  fond  of  coming 
over  and  chatting  with  him  before  the  big 
fire,  with  the  terrier  asleep  in  her  lap,  and 
Aunt  Dilcy  putting  her  head  in  now  and 
then  to  give  the  milk  jar  a  turn  on  the 
hearth  where  she  always  set  it  until  ready 
for  the  churn.  Sometimes  Al  came  over 
with  her,  and  then  the  visit  was  real  pleas- 
ant. But  of  late,  —  well,  after  all,  she 
failed  to  detect  any  difference  in  the 


196  The  Valley  Path 

doctor's  manner;  so  she  concluded  Joe 
had  allowed  his  jealousy  to  warp  his  good 
sense.  The  doctor  didn't  appear  near  so 
fond  of  her  as  he  did  of  the  terrier  on  her 
lap. 

"  I  will  fill  the  capsules,"  he  said,  seat- 
ing himself  to  the  task,  "and  you  may 
give  one  to  Al  every  two  hours.  You 
can  give  them  on  the  sly  if  there's  any 
fuss  made." 

"  I'll  give  them  fair  an'  square,  if 
granny'll  let  me,"  she  replied.  "  I  won't 
do  anything  on  the  sly.  I  reckin  gran- 
ny'll throw  it  all  in  the  fire  for  a  lot  o' 
foolishness,  because  it's  bitter  instead  of 
hot.  Granny  believes  in  fire.  Grandad 
says  that's  why  she's  so  wedded  to  the 
bad  place;  it's  hot.  He  says  hell's  about 
the  only  medicine  ever  give  that  was  hot 
enough  for  granny.  An'  he  says  she's 
equal  to  a  pretty  big  dose  of  that.  Doc- 
tor Borin',  if  I  ever  get  sick  I  want  you  to 
doctor  me.  Remember  now,  you're  noti- 
fied befo'hand.  Will  you  ?  " 


The  Valley  Path  197 

"  If  you  let  me  know  you  are  ill  before 
you  send  for  the  undertaker,"  he  replied, 
tapping  the  quinine  bottle  with  his  finger 
until  the  white  fluffy  powder  lay  in  a  soft 
heap  on  the  paper  he  had  spread  upon 
the  table  to  receive  it.  "  You  people 
have  a  way  of  getting  sick  and  sending 
for  a  physician  while  they  are  taking  your 
measure  for  a  coffin." 

She  laughed  softly,  twirling  her  hat 
upon  her  slender,  well-shaped  finger. 

"  Well,  I'm  too  healthy  to  send  for 
either  of  you  yet"  she  said.  " When 
I  die  — "  She  glanced  up,  caught  the 
expression  in  his  eyes,  and  blushed.  Was 
Joe  right  after  all  ?  His  next  words  al- 
most made  her  think  herself  a  fool. 

"  Be  sure  you  are  not  guilty  of  such 
a  thing  until  I  get  home  again,"  said  he. 
"  I  am  going  back  to  the  city  soon,  to  be 
gone  —  months." 

He  was  watching  her  now,  so  intently 
she  dared  not  look  up,  and  so  failed  to 
read  the  truth,  as  Joe  had  seen  it,  in  his 


The  Valley  Path 


eyes.  He  saw  her  start,  however,  and 
his  heart  gave  a  sudden  joyous  bound, 
although  she  went  on  talking  quietly, 
even  merrily,  of  his  going. 

"  I  sha'n't  die  befo'  you  get  back, 
I  reckin.  I'm  healthy  an'  strong.  I 
reckin  I  ought  to  be  thankful ;  I  am 
thankful,  though  I  ain't  as  rejoiced  over 
the  comin'  back  of  Brother  Barry  as  I 
might  be." 

He  was  silent,  hoping  she  would  talk 
on ;  it  was  a  happiness  to  have  her  sit 
there  in  his  house,  and  prattle  in  her 
sweet,  girlish  way.  But  when  she  drew 
her  chair  a  trifle  nearer  the  table,  and 
began  helping  him  to  fill  the  capsules  in 
a  matter-of-fact,  at-home  way,  his  happi- 
ness was  complete,  so  thoroughly  in  her 
proper  place  did  she  appear.  "  I  reckin," 
she  went  on  to  say,  "  they're  all  expectin' 
a  big  revival.  Joe  said  he  lay  I'd  give  in 
this  time  sure.  An  little  Al  has  asked 
granny  ter  ask  the  church  folks  to  pray 
for  him.  I  know  he's  a  sight  better  than  a 


The  Valley  Path  199 

lot  of  them,  but  I  don't  say  so;  I  wouldn't 
hinder  nobody,  let  alone  little  Al.  But 
for  me,  I  can't  see  my  way  plain  to  be- 
lieve. They  haven't  explained  away  that 
resurrection  of  the  body  yet;  not  to  my 
satisfaction." 

He  could  help  her  over  this  stone  at 
all  events. 

"  Lissy,"  he  said,  "  that  is  the  easiest 
part  of  the  problem.  Listen,  —  " 

He  leaned  forward,  a  half-filled  capsule 
in  his  hand,  his  arm  resting  upon  the 
table. 

"  You  put  a  seed  in  the  ground  in  the 
spring-time,  —  a  grain  of  corn.  In  a  little 
while  there  appears  a  tender  shoot  of 
green,  and  you  say  your  seed  has  £  come 
up ; '  yet  it  is  not  a  seed ;  it  is  no  longer 
a  grain  of  corn.  And  if  you  dig  there 
the  next  spring,  and  every  spring  until 
decay  has  carried  it  away,  you  will  find 
the  rotted  roots,  the  skeleton  of  the  seed 
you  sowed.  Yet  the  seed  came  up,  al- 
beit in  another  form.  Was  it  the  seed 


2OO  The  Valley  Path 

you  sowed  ?  So  it  is  with  our  natural 
body ;  it  is  sown  in  corruption,  in  the 
earth ;  it  is  raised  a  spiritual  body,  incor- 
ruptible. Like  the  seed  you  sow,  it  is 
not  the  body  which  shall  be,  but  bare 
grain,  <it  may  chance  of  wheat,  or  of 
some  other  grain.'  But  c  God  giveth  it  a 
body,'  a  new  body,  just  as  He  gives  a  new 
form  to  your  seed  when  you  say  it  has 
come  up." 

She  had  listened  with  a  kind  of  rapt 
intentness  while  he  unravelled  the  mys- 
tery of  her  doubt.  When  he  finished,  a 
smile  parted  her  lips.  "  Why,  it's  as 
easy  as  anything!"  she  laughed.  "I  see 
it  as  plain  as  day  now.  Doctor  Borin', 
I  wonder  if  the  rest  might  not  be  just  as 
easy,  with  somebody  to  explain  it  all  ? " 

"Just  as  easy,  dear  —  child,"  he  re- 
plied, blushing  like  a  boy  for  the  slip  his 
tongue  had  made.  "  Just  you  go  on 
living  one  day  at  a  time,  doing  your  duty 
as  seems  right  to  you,  and  letting  creeds 
and  mysteries  take  care  of  themselves. 


The  Valley  Path  201 

Take  this  for  your  creed,  f  For  me,  I  do 
believe  in  God  and  love.'  That's  creed 
enough  to  live  by,  and  life  well  lived  will 
light  death's  lantern;  never  doubt  it." 

The  gray  eyes  were  aglow  with  sur- 
prised delight, 

"  Why,  Doctor  Borin',  you're  not  an 
infidel !  "  she  said.  "  You  talk  like  the 
preacher." 

"What?" 

She  laughed  aloud.  "  I  mean  the 
Episcoper,  at  Sewanee,  not  Brother  Barry. 
O  Lord !  I  hope  you  don't  think  I'd  call 
you  like  Brother  Barry.  But  you  ain't 
like  an  infidel,  neither." 

"Joe  says  I  am." 

"  Oh,  Joe ;  he's  always  talkin* ;  and  he 
certainly  does  talk  scan'lous  sometimes ; 
but  it's  funny,  too  ;  to  save  my  life  I  can't 
help  laugh  in'  at  him  sometimes.  Joe 
says  that  Moses  left  off  one  comman'ment 
he  ought  to  have  put  down  on  them 
tables  of  stone.  He  forgot  it,  Joe  says. 
' Plough  your  own  row.'  That's  the  other 


202  The  Valley  Path 

comman'ment  Joe  says  as  ought  to  have 
been  put  down.  And  he  says  he  ain't 
been  so  mighty  admirin'  of  them  Israel- 
ites, who  borrowed  all  their  neighbours' 
earrings  and  jewelry,  and  then  set  out  for 
the  promised  land.  Joe  says  if  they  ware 
to  try  that  these  times  all  the  promised  land 
they'd  reach  would  be  the  State  prison. 
And  he  says  just  ordinary  folks  air  run- 
nin'  this  country,  too,  and  not  Moseses. 
That's  what  Joe  says.  Brother  Barry 
says  Joe's  awful  wicked,  and  something'll 
certain'y  happen  to  him  for  his  wicked- 
ness. Goodness  knows  I  hope  it  won't 
be  another  cow  to  die  with  the  milksick 
poison.  I'm  afraid  Joe's  sins  will  in  and 
about  kill  up  all  his  stock  and  cattle 
befo'  I  go  down  to  Pelham.  And  when 
the  two  of  us  gets  there  I  reckin  both  our 
sins,  Joe's  and  mine,  will  about  finish  up 
things,  —  burn  up  the  house,  or  set  rust 
in  the  wheat  or  somethin'.  Joe  ought  to 
think  about  that  befo'  he  fetches  another 
sinner  to  his  farm.  Good-by,  Doctor 


The  Valley  Path  203 

Borin'.  I've  got  to  carry  the  quinine  to  Al. 
It's  mighty  good  of  you  to  fix  it  for  him. 
And  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  till  you're 
better  paid.  You  better  come  to  meet'n' 
next  month  and  get  religion.  Somethin' 
will  happen  to  you,  first  thing  you  know. 
Zip  might  ketch  the  mumps,  or  somethin' 
else  dreadful.  You  better  stay  here  and 
get  religion  under  Brother  Barry,  'stead 
of  runnin'  off  to  town  so  soon." 

Was  she  acting  ?  More  than  once  he 
had  detected,  or  thought  he  had,  an  in- 
sincere note  in  her  voice,  and  when  she 
set  him  laughing  over  Joe's  foolish  say- 
ings, he  had  looked  up,  to  find  that  her  own 
face  was  entirely  destitute  of  mirth.  He 
had  been  so  satisfied  to  have  her  sit  there 
in  his  house,  at  his  side,  so  near  him  that 
her  slight  fingers  among  his  capsules  and 
powders  touched  his  own  more  than  once, 
thrilling  him  with  strangely  sweet  content, 
that  he  had  forgotten  to  sound  her  heart  as 
he  had  meant  to  do,  and  to  administer  the 
advice  for  which  indeed  he  had  called  her  in. 


204  The  Valley  Path 

"  Lissy,"  he  said,  "  sit  still  a  moment. 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  paled  and  flushed  by  turns,  and 
nervously  fingered  the  box  of  quinine 
with  which  he  had  provided  her. 

"  Alicia,"  said  the  doctor,  "  have  you 
and  Joe  adjusted  your  difference  ?  I 
mean  have  you  made  up  your  quarrel  ? " 

"  No,  sir,"  she  replied ;  "  we  ain't 
friends ;  not  like  we  useter  be." 

"  Why  ? " 

He  saw  the  colour  in  her  face  deepen ; 
her  eyes  were  bent  upon  her  hands,  work- 
ing nervously  in  her  lap.  Did  he  know  ? 
she  wondered ;  did  he  think  that  she  was 
fool  enough  to  suppose  that  he  could  care 
for  her,  —  a  humble  little  peddler  of  the 
vegetables  her  own  hands  had  raised  ? 
Embarrassment  sealed  her  lips. 

For  him,  he  would  have  sounded  her 
heart  for  the  one  certain  blessed  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  not  altogether  merely  a 
foolish  old  man  to  her. 

He  leaned  forward  to  look  into  her  eyes. 


The  Valley  Path  205 

"  Alicia,"  he  said,  the  tenderness  of  his 
tone  giving  new  music  to  the  pretty,  old- 
fashioned  name.  "Alicia,  may  I  help 
you  to  set  Joe  right  ?  I  am  an  old  friend, 
you  know." 

She  flashed  upon  him  with  sudden 
vehemence  : 

"  No,  sir,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't  want 
any  help  to  do  that.  But,"  she  added, 
more  gently,  "  I'm  much  obliged  to  you, 
Doctor  Borin'.  I  know  you  mean  it  kind, 
but  I  haven't  settled  it  in  my  own  min' 
yet  that  I  want  to  make  it  up  with  Joe." 

«  What  ? " 

"  I  allowed  you'd  be  surprised  some ; 
but  Joe's  been  mighty  foolish." 

He  flushed,  understanding  thoroughly 
wherein  Joe's  folly  lay  : 

"  How  has  he  been  '  foolish  ? '  What 
has  he  done  ?  " 

He  was  watching  her  keenly ;  she  was 
too  honest,  too  innocently  nai've  not  to 
betray  her  real  feeling  under  his  cunning 
probing. 


206  The  Valley  Path 

"Well,  he's  been  unreas'nable  anyhow," 
she  replied.  "  An'  he  has  been  mighty 
free  with  his  fault-findin'.  He  has  showed 
me  somethin'  in  his  disposition  that  I 
don't  like,  Doctor  BorinV 

"  Young  men,  young  lovers,  are  always 
exacting,  Alicia." 

"  Then  I  don't  want  'em,"  she  replied, 
with  blunt  honesty.  "I  won't  have  my 
life  made  a  tirade  and  a  continual  jow.  I 
aim  to  do  some  good  in  the  worl'  if  I  can ; 
and  if  I  marry  at  all,  I'm  going  to  marry 
a  man  steady  and  sober,  an'  live  quiet  and 
helpful.  I  ain't  so  mighty  anxious  to 
marry  at  all." 

Again  life  offered  him  a  chance ;  and 
again  he  chose  the  nobler  part,  —  the 
nobler  is  ever  the  harder  part. 

"  Alicia,"  he  said,  "  you  are  young. 
But  there  is  a  womanliness  about  you 
that  should  win  you  a  strong  man's 
earnest  love  —  " 

He  paused  ;  she  was  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes ;  as  he  continued  he  saw  a 


The  Valley  Path  207 

warm  light  kindle  in  the  shadowy  gray 
depths  of  her  own  ;  a  response  that  was 
ready  to  awaken  with  the  slightest  hint. 

He  leaned  forward  and  folded  her 
hands,  palm  to  palm,  between  his  own. 

"  You  might  have  the  life  your  heart 
calls  for,  the  c  quiet,  steady  life.'  And  per- 
haps you  would  be  content  with  it.  But, 
dear  —  my  dear  child,  it  would  slay  your 
youth  at  the  outset;  drop  you  from  girl 
to  woman.  And  your  content  would  con- 
sist in  ignorance,  since  you  would  never 
know  the  real  joy,  the  aliveness  of  happi- 
ness which  only  the  young  and  senti- 
mental may  feel.  You  must  live  your 
youth,  have  your  joy.  Joe  loves  you, 
and  his  is  an  honest,  earnest  nature.  He 
will  never  be  unkind  to  you.  The  little 
whims  of  the  lover  do  not  appear  in  the 
husband.  You  must  think  of  it,  Alicia. 
I  am  going  away  soon,  to  be  gone  until 
the  azaleas  come  again.  When  I  return  I 
shall  expect  to  find  you  happy  through 
my  advice.  You  will  not  disappoint  me, 


208  The  Valley  Path 

Alicia  ?  I  am  an  old  man,  but  in  my 
youth,  I,  too,  had  a  love ;  a  love  for  a 
woman  who  cruelly  cast  it  from  her.  And 
I  can  swear  to  you  that  an  honest  man's 
honest  love  doesn't  easily  die.  Be  good 
to  Joe ;  a  cruel  woman  is  God's  abomina- 
tion ;  I  feel  sure  of  it.  Go  home  now, 
and  give  Al  his  quinine.  I  have  kept 
you  a  long  time." 

She  rose  with  him,  and  he  opened  the 
door  for  her  to  pass  out.  Had  she 
grasped  his  meaning?  Had  he  hurt 
her?  Her  face,  as  he  caught  a  last 
glimpse  of  it,  wore  a  puzzled  look ;  into 
the  gray  eyes  the  shadows  had  returned. 
His  heart  smote  him  sharply ;  but  it  was 
best,  "  best  all  round,"  he  told  himself; 
and  that  she  "  would  soon  forget  it."  As 
she  reached  the  outer  door,  he  called  to 
her,  pleasantly : 

"  Oh,  Lissy,  I  am  going  to  bring  you 
a  wedding  present  when  I  come  back." 

She  waved  her  hand  lightly,  but  gave 
him  no  other  reply.  Yet  he  noticed  that, 


The  Valley  Path  209 

in  the  poise  of  her  head,  which  he  had 
never  observed  before.  There  was  a  dig- 
nity, almost  a  defiance,  in  the  way  she 
carried  herself;  her  very  feet  seemed  to 
touch  the  ground  with  new  meaning;  as 
though  she  demanded  of  the  solid  earth 
the  strength  of  adamant,  far  down  among 
its  basic  foundations. 

The  physician  watched  until  the  red- 
crowned  head  disappeared  down  the 
brown  footpath. 

"  More  strength  than  stability,"  was 
his  thought.  "  Under  favourable  cir- 
cumstances she  would  have  developed 
a  tendency  to  fanaticism.  With  a  guid- 
ing hand,  what  a  force  she  might  prove 
in  her  day  !  As  it  is  —  ah,  well ;  there 
is  no  telling  the  by-paths  into  which  a 
nature  like  hers  may  turn." 


Chapter  XI 

DOCTOR  BORING  had  begun  to 
feel  at  home  in  his  cabin,  and  to 
find  in  the  valley  that  content  which  life 
offers  those  who  follow  her  humble  lead- 
ings. In  every  work  so  much  goes  for 
charity ;  "  for  nothing,"  the  world  is 
accustomed  to  say  of  that  for  which  no 
actual  return  in  dollars  is  to  be  expected. 
The  physician,  more  than  any  man, 
if  he  be  the  true  physician,  gives  more 
of  himself  to  the  poor  than  does  any 
other  man.  Yet,  does  he  stop  to  cast 
up  the  discount,  —  so  much  money,  so 
many  hours  of  sleep,  so  many  miles  of 
cold  and  sleet  and  suffering,  so  much 
hunger,  so  much  time,  so  much  of  man's 
strength  and  vitality  gone  for  nothing? 
Not  he ;  he  doesn't  so  much  as  consider 


The  Valley  Path  211 

"  done  for  God's  poor."  He  accepts  it  as 
a  part  of  the  price  of  success,  as  a  duty 
done  in  the  name  of  humanity,  as  so  much 
of  the  discount  demanded  of  his  profes- 
sion. But  he  responds  to  the  calls.  He 
who  does  not  is  a  speculator  in  human 
suffering  and  unworthy  the  name  of 
physician. 

Doctor  Boring  had  not  put  out  his 
doorplate  with  any  hope  or  wish  for 
patients ;  it  was  merely  a  part  of  the 
whim  that  had  bought  the  cabin  and 
transferred  him  to  the  quiet  valley  paths. 
The  little  practice  that  he  did  was  his 
"  discount,"  his  donation,  in  the  name 
of  his  profession  to  humanity. 

As  the  days  grew  colder  he  realised 
that  if  he  meant  to  return  to  the  city 
he  must  be  off.  Sometimes  he  was 
tempted  not  to  go  at  all,  —  he  was  com- 
fortable, content;  what  more  had  any 
man?  But  since  his  talk  with  Joe,  and 
the  promise  made  himself  not  to  disturb 
the  young  man's  happiness,  he  had  de- 


212  The  Valley  Path 

cided  to  return  at  once,  —  in  two  days, 
perhaps. 

He  believed  there  was  real  good  in 
young  Bowen ;  for  himself,  he  said,  with 
a  sigh,  the  path  would  soon  reach  the 
river,  and  he  fancied  the  crossing  would 
be  clearer  for  the  sacrifice  made.  Then, 
too,  —  and  he  tried  to  laugh  at  the  rec- 
ollection, —  Bowen's  first  call  had  been 
his  introduction  to  the  people  round 
about.  It  had  set  him  in  the  balance,  — 
learning  against  ignorance,  skill  against 
herbs.  And  he  had  felt  his  end  of  the 
scale  go  up  until,  he  told  himself,  he  had 
"  kicked  the  beam  like  a  trounced  frog." 

Yet  this  first  call  had  been  a  godsend 
to  him ;  had  lifted  him  out  of  himself; 
inspired  him  with  a  determination  to 
prove  himself  to  those  aristocrats  of  the 
wilderness ;  given  him  an  entrance  into 
their  homes,  a  part  and  place  in  their 
lives.  It  had  drawn  him  out  from  the 
shadows  that  dwarfed  and  the  doubts  that 
had  upset  his  life ;  from  the  dogmas  and 


The  Valley  Path  213 

creeds,  whose  "  I  believes "  he  had  re- 
fused, and  had,  in  consequence,  found  the 
great  doors  of  Christianity  closed  upon 
him.  So  he  had  knocked  at  the  doors  of 
these  native  independents,  who  measure 
men^  not  their  phylacteries.  They  had 
called  to  him  that  the  latch-string  hung 
upon  the  outside,  with  the  same  cordial 
good  faith  with  which  they  responded  to 
each  other's  knock,  or  to  the  knock  of 
the  parson  himself,  —  that  embodiment 
of  all  perfection.  And  since  they  had 
found  him  neither  thief  nor  liar,  they  still 
accepted  him  as  honest,  even  in  his 
doubts,  and  granted  him  the  privilege  of 
believing  "  according  to  his  light." 

True,  they  still  called  him  infidel,  and 
believed  that  he  would  eventually  be 
lost,  burned  in  a  lake  of  fire  and  brim- 
stone ;  but  with  the  same  breath  declared 
"  'twould  be  a  burnin'  shame ; "  and 
sighed,  unconscious  they  were  guilty  of 
a  witticism. 

To  those  he  had  left  in  the  world  he 


214  The  Valley  Path 

had  forsaken,  there  was  a  touch  of  tragedy 
in  his  life.  They  were  a  trifle  disposed  to 
call  him  the  "  mad  doctor "  also.  Not 
because  of  the  old  romance  to  which  he 
had  refused  to  accord  the  privilege  of 
ruining  his  life,  —  he  had  "  outlived  that," 
they  said  of  him,  "  long  enough  before  he 
left  the  world."  Neither  was  it  for  the 
touch  of  heresy  they  pitied  him ;  it  was 
the  voluntary  giving  up  of  the  pleasures 
of  society,  those  things  for  which  his 
wealth  and  station  fitted  him,  —  his  "  self- 
immolation  "  they  called  it,  —  but  they 
had  ceased  to  believe  that  he  would  "  soon 
grow  weary  of  the  wilderness."  Nor 
would  he.  To  him  the  hut  in  the  valley 
was  nearer  the  heaven  his  fancy  painted 
and  his  heart  called  for,  than  any  home 
he  had  found  elsewhere ;  here  he  was  not 
a  cynic,  not  a  scoffer,  not  a  disturber  of 
other  men's  content.  No,  no ;  no  man 
could  charge  him  with  the  despoiling  of 
his  happiness.  The  knowledge  brought 
him  infinite  content.  The  happiness  that 


The  Valley  Path  215 

had  been  denied  his  own  life  he  had 
given  another.  It  is  a  grand  thing  to  give 
joy  to  a  troubled  heart ;  a  glorious  thing 
to  scatter  the  rose  seed  along  the  barren 
wastes  of  a  life,  a  blessed  thing;  the 
winds  passing  over  the  spot  some  day, 
and  finding  the  roses  abloom,  will  bring 
back  their  perfume,  like  sweet  incense,  to 
the  nostrils  of  the  sower. 

With  the  cold  came  Brother  Barry. 
Al,  who  had  been  but  poorly  all  the  fall, 
had  at  last  taken  to  his  bed  with  a  chill. 
The  old  grandmother  still  refused  the 
mad  doctor's  medicines,  and  poor  Al  had 
been  at  the  mercy  of  herbs  and  hot  teas. 

The  day  following  Alicia's  visit  Doc- 
tor Boring  walked  down  the  path  to  the 
miller's  gate  to  inquire  after  the  sick  boy. 
It  was  early ;  he  had  not  breakfasted,  and 
the  frost  still  lay  white  and  glistening 
upon  the  short  dry  grass,  and  ridged  the 
crisp  brown  stalks  of  the  naked  sumach 
and  elder  bushes. 

The  miller  had  lately  met  with  reverses. 


2i6  The  Valley  Path 

A  visitor  had  dropped  a  spark  from  his 
pipe,  and  that  night  the  mill  had  burned. 
The  doctor  missed  the  noisily  monoto- 
nous clatter  as  he  drew  near  the  house, 
and  stood  a  moment  leaning  upon  the 
low  gate,  looking  over  into  the  shivering 
grays  and  browns  that  had  lately  been 
Alicia's  truck-patch. 

The  doors  of  the  house  stood  wide 
open,  and  beneath  the  window  a  de- 
nuded, frozen  rose-bush  tapped  persist- 
ently against  the  pane. 

A  neighbour  woman  was  spreading 
some  quilts  to  air  upon  the  ancient  althea- 
bushes  in  the  yard,  the  bright  greens  and 
yellows  making  a  gaudy  robing  for  the 
winter-stripped  shrubs.  On  the  door-step, 
her  face  buried  in  her  folded  arms,  sat 
Alicia.  The  sun  caught  and  duplicated 
the  golden  glints  of  her  bright  hair,  as 
though  rejoicing  in  the  warmth  of  colour. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  despite  the 
trouble  in  the  background.  He  leaned 
over  the  gate  and  called : 


The  Valley  Path  217 

"Lissy!" 

The  figure  upon  the  doorstep  did  not 
stir. 

"  Lissy  !  Oh,  Lissy  !  how  is  your 
brother?" 

Still  there  was  no  response,  and  he 
called  again  : 

"  Lissy  !  O-h,  Lissy  !  How  is  your 
brother  ?  " 

A  neighbour  woman  came  to  the  door, 
saw  him,  and  said  something  in  a  low 
tone  to  the  girl,  seemingly  deaf  to  his 
call.  She  lifted  her  head  wearily,  saw 
him,  and  placed  her  hand  behind  her  ear  ; 
the  wind  was  blowing  contrary. 

"  How  is  your  brother  ?  Your  brother  ? 
How  —  is  —  your  —  brother  ?  " 

The  bright  head  fell  back  upon  the 
folded  arms.  The  neighbour  woman 
shouted  a  reply,  in  a  shrill,  sharp  voice, 
meant  only  to  be  distinct,  however. 

"What?      Your     brother     is     dead? 


He  turned  abruptly  and  went  back  to 


2i 8  The  Valley  Path 

his  cabin,  surprise,  anger,  disgust  strug- 
gling within  him.  "  These  people  !  "  he 
muttered;  "they  sit  still  and  let  one  an- 
other die  like  pigs  in  a  pen.  Dosed  on 
hot  tea  and  set  to  cool  in  a  draught  that 
would  make  a  bear  sneeze.  It's  enough 
to  make  a  man  swear.  A  foot-bath  and 
a  few  grains  of  quinine  would  have  set 
that  boy  on  his  feet  in  three  days.  And 
here  he  is,  dead.  I  declare  I've  a  good 
mind  to  pull  up  stakes  and  quit  the 
country." 

As  he  approached  his  house  he  heard 
Aunt  Dike  calling  to  Ephraim  to  "  shut 
de  front  gate,"  and,  looking  up,  for  the 
first  time  discovered  that  he  had  a  visitor. 

The  lank-looking  mare  industriously 
skinning  the  bark  from  a  young  sugar- 
tree  proclaimed  the  ecclesiastical  presence 
before  old  Dike  hobbled  to  the  gate  to 
announce  the  guest. 

"  De  preacher  ob  de  gospil,  marster. 
An'  lookin'  lack  he  might  be  tolerable 
hongry  fur  his  breakfus'." 


The  Valley  Path  219 

He  was  grieved,  troubled ;  yet  he 
never  permitted  his  own  worries  to  affect 
his  household,  so  he  replied,  as  carelessly 
as  possible,  although  he  felt  but  little  dis- 
posed for  the  company  thrust  upon  him : 

"  Well,  you  must  fix  him  up  a  good 
one.  And  tell  Ephraim  to  take  his  mare 
and  feed  her,  also." 

The  old  negress's  face  wore  a  knowing 
look. 

"He  say  he  can't  stay  but  just  a  min- 
ute ;  he  say  he  got  to  git  about  de  Mars- 
ter's  bus'nes." 

He  made  a  lunge  at  her  with  a  stick  he 
had  cut  from  a  sumach  bush  down  the 
valley. 

"Get  out  with  you!  as  if  you  didn't 
know  what  Brother  Barry's  minutes  mean. 
You  old  sinner !  —  go  get  the  parson  a 
good  breakfast ;  fry  another  chicken,  and 
make  an  extra  pan  of  biscuit.  Fill  up 
your  coffee-pot,  and  put  fresh  sheets  on 
the  bed  in  the  garret.  There's  a  re- 
vival to  begin  at  Goshen,  the  big  church 


220  The  Valley  Path 

down  the  valley.  And  the  Master's  busi- 
ness will  locate  Brother  Barry  in  the 
guest-chamber  for  a  week,  at  the  very 
shortest.  Go  along,  you  old  sinner,  and 
help  entertain  the  elect." 

She  went  off,  laughing  and  protesting ; 
she  understood  the  situation  as  well  as  he. 

"  Marster,"  she  paused  to  say,  "  dey's 
plenty  breakfus'  done  cooked  fur  half  a 
dozen  hearty  eaters,  en  I  ain'  guine  tech 
nare  'nother  chicken ;  not  fur  nobody. 
It's  ready  en  waitin'.  You  Efrum  ?  come 
'long  here  en  tak  dat  mar'  nag  from  dat 
sugar-tree,  'fo'  I  bus'  it  wide  op'n." 

The  preacher  was  standing  before  the 
fireplace  in  the  attitude  of  warming  him- 
self. 

He  turned  to  meet  the  doctor,  in  the 
old  empty,  high-sounding  way.  His 
voice  had  lost  nothing  of  its  drawling 
religious  accent  since  his  previous  visit; 
his  face  wore  its  usual  solemn  aspect;  he 
was,  if  possible,  more  dismally  lachrymose 
than  he  had  ever  been.  The  sins  of  his 


The  Valley  Path  221 

people  were  more  crushing  than  ever. 
He  offered  his  hand  cordially,  in  brotherly 
clasp,  but  without  lifting  his  eyes. 

"  My  brother,"  he  said,  in  his  solemn 
way,  "the  Master  has  sent  me  to  you." 

"  Much  obliged  for  the  compliment," 
said  the  doctor,  dryly.  "But  as  I  told 
you  once  before,  I  thought  it  was  only  to 
the  lost  sheep  of  the  house  of  Israel  you 
were  sent.  By  the  way,  one  of  the  flock 
has  just  died  in  the  next  house.  Al 
Reams,  the  brother  of  Alicia,  died  an 
hour  ago.  You  might  be  of  service  up 
there,  instead  of  wasting  ammunition  on 
an  old  stray  like  me." 

The  face  of  the  visitor  wore  a  pious 
frown.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his  hand  and 
pronounced  the  doom  of  the  dead  boy  : 

"  Died  in  his  sins !  died  in  his  sins  an' 
gone  to  hell.  A  warning  !  a  warning  !  A 
theme  for  the  evening  service !  —  the 
death  of  the  unregenerate ;  the  soul  that 
sinneth  it  shall  surely  die." 

The    sumach    stick    slipped    from    the 


222  The  Valley  Path 

doctor's  hand  to  the  floor ;  he  was  all 
atremble  with  indignation. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  ex- 
pect to  hold  that  dead  boy  up,  a  terror  by 
which  to  drag  your  ignorant  hearers  out 
of  hell  fire  ?  That  boy,  who  never  had 
an  ugly  thought  in  all  his  poor  little  life, 
and  whose  worst  sin  was  an  ignorant  fear 
that  somewhere,  sometime,  there  might 
be  reserved  for  him  a  punishment  for  the 
sins  of  which  he  had  never  so  much  as 
heard?  The  only  brother  and  the  idol 
of  a  broken-hearted  sister  who  sits  yonder 
crushed  and  broken  with  her  loss,  and 
whose  only  comfort  is  that  the  poor  boy 
is  happy  with  his  God  ?  And  you  would 
destroy  that  hope?  assume  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  overthrow  of  that  faith  ? 
Tou  ?  you  ?  " 

"  Let  the  living  be  warned  by  the 
dead,"  said  the  enthusiast.  "  Let  them 
flee  the  wrath  to  come,  lest  they,  too,  be 
overtaken  in  their  sins.  The  girl  herself 
is  a  sinner;  time  an'  again  has  the  truth 


The  Valley  Path  223 

been  presented,  the  offer  refused.  And 
now,  for  her  stubbornness,  the  Lord  has 
visited  her  with  His  rod.  Let  her  be 
warned ;  let  her  be  warned  !  Oh,  I  shall 
not  preach  the  unregenerate  into  heaven : 
/  have  the  courage  to  say  he's  in  hell  and 
the  lake  prepared  for  the  devil  an'  his 
angels." 

The  doctor  gave  him  a  glance  of  intense 
scorn. 

"  Rot ;  nothing  but  rot.  In  less  than 
ten  years  the  man  who  gets  up  to  cram 
such  doctrine  as  that  down  the  throat 
of  an  audience  will  find  himself  laughed 
out  of  the  pulpit.  Do  you  believe  all 
that  horrible  stuff  you're  talking  ?  If 
that  is  the  kind  of  God  you  preach,  then 
He  is  a  fiend,  and  not  a  God.  Stuff  and 
nonsense !  Go  up  there  and  help  the 
poor  people  to  live,  if  you  can ;  ease 
their  burden,  not  seek  to  crush  them 
under  it.  Don't  go  straining  at  the  gnat 
and  swallowing  the  menagerie ;  and  don't 
stand  off  and  cry,  *  The  Lord,  He  did 


224  The  Valley  Path 

it ! '  I  tell  you  He  didn't.  God  doesn't 
strike  in  the  back.  Go  up  and  tell  the 
mourners  in  that  cabin  that  He  cares  for 
them ;  that  He  has  not  smitten  them ; 
that  He  is  not  narrow  and  cruel  and 
revengeful ;  that  He  established  certain 
laws  of  health,  and  that  one  of  these  has 
been  violated,  and  that  is  all.  Tell  them 
that  hot  teas  and  cold  draughts  killed 
their  son  and  brother ;  not  God ;  and 
that  a  dose  of  quinine  taken  in  season 
would  have  accomplished  that  which  that 
poor  girl's  prayers  failed  to  do.  Go  up 
like  a  man,  and  a  missionary  indeed,  and 
tell  them  the  truth.  Preach  the  doctrine 
of  clean  water  and  common  sense.  That 
is  what  the  world  needs  ;  and  the  mission- 
ary who  carries  that  creed  into  the  homes 
of  ignorance  and  of  poverty  will  come  in 
at  the  harvest  bringing  his  sheaves  with 
him." 

Across  the  face  of  the  exhorter  flitted 
an  expression  half  pity,  half  reproach ;  the 
next  moment  he  sighed  heavily ;  he  had 


The  Valley  Path  225 

learned  the  folly  of  all  argument  with  this 
man.  He  lifted  his  long  arm  that  had 
aye  been  ready  to  do  battle  in  the  cause 
of  his  espousing,  and  said,  in  his  best 
pulpit  style : 

"  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead ;  the 
Master  has  sent  me  to  you" 

"  No,  sir,  I  reckon  not,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  something  like  a  return  to 
good  humour.  "  You  misunderstood  the 
call,  that  was  all.  It  was  your  com- 
mon sense  indicating  a  place  where  the 
cheer  was  plenteous,  and  a  welcome  pos- 
sible. Well,  you  are  welcome ;  make 
yourself  at  home  while  I  speak  to  Aunt 
Dilcy.  You  know  where  the  guest-cham- 
ber is." 

He  nodded  towards  the  garret,  and 
went  to  Aunt  Dilcy,  busy  "  taking  up 
the  breakfast." 

She  had  just  taken  the  pot  of  steaming 
coffee  from'  the  stove,  and  at  the  moment 
he  entered  the  kitchen  was  carefully  dust- 
ing away  with  her  apron  any  possible  soot 


226  The  Valley  Path 

that  might  adhere  to  the  bottom  of  the 
vessel.  When  he  spoke  she  started, 
being  unaware  of  his  presence,  and  set 
the  pot  back  upon  the  stove,  with  a  vehe- 
mence that  almost  sent  it  spinning  across 
the  floor. 

"  Lor,  marster,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you 
mos'  skeered  de  life  out'n  me ;  it's  de 
befo'  God's  truf,  you  sholy  s'prised  me 
some" 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  surprise  you  still 
more,"  said  the  doctor.  "  The  young  man 
over  at  the  miller's  is  dead." 

"  Great  God  A'mighty  —  " 

"And  you  are  to  get  your  breakfast  on 
the  table  and  go  over  there.  You  are  to 
carry  this  bill  to  Lissy.  The  miller  has 
had  losses  lately,  and  something  may  be 
needed  beyond  their  present  funds.  Give 
the  money  to  Lissy  herself,  and  tell  her 
to  use  it  as  she  may  find  need  for  it,  and 
that  she  can  repay  it  in  eggs  and  butter 
sometime.  Be  sure  you  tell  her  that, 
else  she  will  not  touch  it.  And  before 


The  Valley  Path  227 

you  go,  send  Ephraim   to  take   Brother 
Barry's  mare." 

Despite  his  rather  stormy  welcome, 
Brother  Barry  continued  to  occupy  the 
guest-chamber  for  some  weeks.  With 
all  his  ignorance,  the  mountaineer  was 
not  ignorant  of  men  ;  he  knew  that  he 
was  welcome,  that  his  entertainment  was 
given  freely,  without  grudging ;  he  knew, 
also,  that  in  none  of  the  humble  val- 
ley homes  within  his  charge  would  he 
find  himself  so  comfortable,  so  free  to 
come  and  go,  so  unquestionably  at  home. 
So  he  remained,  and  although  the  revival 
at  Goshen  furnished  food  for  gossip  as 
well  as  pleasure  for  the  entire  neighbour- 
hood of  believers,  and  although  Brother 
Barry  never  for  an  instant  failed  to  let  his 
light  shine  in  the  eyes  of  the  infidel,  and 
never  let  slip  an  opportunity  to  speak 
a  word  of  warning,,  still  the  doctor  con- 
tinued to  "  travel  the  high  road  to  de- 
struction," as  the  minister  declared  he 
was  doing. 


228  The  Valley  Path 

Many  had  been  gathered  into  the  fold, 
however,  and  among  them  Lissy,  poor, 
pale,  heart-broken  Lissy  Reams.  Sor- 
row had  so  crushed  her  that  Brother 
Barry  found  it  no  difficult  task  to  per- 
suade her  that  the  Lord  had  visited  her 
with  the  rod  of  His  wrath.  The  doctor 
saw  but  little  of  her  those  days.  There 
come  to  all  of  us  points  where  life  makes 
a  certain,  emphatic  turn,  after  which  all 
life  is  different,  and  runs,  or  seems  to,  in 
a  new  groove.  Such  a  point  had  come  to 
Alicia,  and  the  shadow  of  her  grief  drew 
her  into  herself,  away  from  those  who 
would  have  offered  comfort.  He  would 
have  gone  to  her,  only  that  he  dared  not. 
His  impulse  would  have  been  to  fold  her 
in  his  arms  and  soothe  her  in  his  bosom, 
his  own  forever. 

At  last  the  meeting  closed,  and  one 
morning  in  December  the  parson  mounted 
his  mare  and  rode  out  of  the  valley,  back 
to  the  heights. 

But  even  the  hard  shell   of  ignorance 


The  Valley  Path  229 

had  been  pierced  by  the  quiet  goodness 
of  the  infidel.  True,  he  had  writhed  not 
a  little  under  his  host's  keen  sarcasm  and 
keener  questioning ;  and  there  were  times 
when  he  would  have  been  glad  to  question 
him  on  certain  points,  but  he  was  afraid, 
lest,  showing  his  weak  part  to  the  en- 
emy, he  should  be  attacked  in  that  quar- 
ter, overthrown  perhaps,  and  conquered. 
Moreover,  he  believed  in  faith,  accepting 
without  questioning  the  gospel  and  its 
teaching.  He  was  afraid  to  tamper  with 
his  religion  lest  he  unsettle  its  foundation. 
Yet,  in  a  certain  way,  he  had  a  great 
respect  for  the  doctor.  As  he  sat  astride 
his  mare  at  parting,  he  leaned  forward 
and  placed  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  My  brother,"  said  he,  "  you  have  sat 
beneath  the  word  day  after  day,  hearing 
without  heeding  the  gospel  call.  You 
are  not  a  bad  man.  Neither  are  you  a 
Christian.  But  you  are  in  darkness :  I 
want  to  help  you  to  the  light,  to  lead 
you  to  the  Rock.  Show  me  where  you 


230  The  Valley  Path 

stand ;  tell  me  your  creed.  You  believe 
in  the  hereafter  ?  in  God  ?  " 

The  physician  sighed.  There  was  a 
time  when  the  words  would  have  amused 
him ;  but  of  late  he  had  looked  too  stead- 
ily upon  the  sombre  in  life. 

"  I  believe  in  God,"  he  said,  "  yes ; 
and  in  a  hereafter,  yes ;  for  I  am  not  a 
fool,  though  certainly  not  orthodox.  Your 
theory  of  three  Gods  comprising  one, 
no.  Your  God  of  vengeance,  cruelty,  and 
blood  I  refuse  to  accept.  Jesus  Christ 
preached  the  real  religion.  The  creed 
which  I  profess  is  the  same  that  He 
taught :  truth,  cleanliness,  charity.  My 
religion  is  told  in  few  words :  to  tell  the 
truth,  help  the  poor,  and  keep  myself 
clean." 

The  Methodist  straightened  himself  to 
speak,  but  paused,  reconsidered,  and  was 
silent  a  moment,  looking  away  towards  the 
hills  where  the  mists  were  shrouded  about 
Sewanee.  There  was  a  baffled  expression 
in  his  eyes.  He  had  toiled  all  these  weeks 


The  Valley  Path  231 

for  a  certain  fish,  and  at  last  had  been 
forced  to  quit  with  an  empty  net.  He 
lifted  his  hand  towards  the  purple  haze. 

"  Rain,"  said  he.  "  Rain  followed  by 
drought,  poor  crops,  sickness,  destitution. 
I  know  the  signs.  Well,  for  me,  I  aim  to 
trust  in  the  Lord  for  a  crop.  I'll  trust 
in  the  Lord." 

"  And  keep  the  plough  handy,"  laughed 
the  doctor.  "  Don't  forget  to  mix  the 
plough  in  with  your  prayers,  Brother 
Barry." 

The  shaft  went  home ;  there  was  a 
frown  upon  the  face  of  the  preacher  as 
he  rode  across  the  valley;  he  felt  the 
hot  blood  mount  to  his  cheeks,  recalling 
as  he  did  the  waste  which  last  year  Joe 
Bowen  had  converted  into  a  garden,  but 
which  this  spring,  for  lack  of  a  friendly 
hand,  was  only  an  acre  of  weeds.  He 
had  been  insulted, — he,  a  minister  of  the 
gospel.  His  wrath  refused  to  be  bridled. 
Suddenly  he  clinched  his  fist,  half  turned 
in  the  saddle,  and  exclaimed : 


23  2  The  Valley  Path 

"  That  man's  the  dad-burndedest  infidel 
this  side  o'  hell,  I  reckin."  It  was  the 
nearest  he  had  ever  been  to  swearing. 

But  later,  when  his  anger  had  cooled, 
and  his  way  lay  along  the  cliffs,  where  the 
mists  were  lifted  and  the  view  clearer, 
and  the  blue  heaven  beamed  upon  him 
fair  and  open,  the  words  of  the  infidel 
came  back  to  him,  and  underneath  their 
lightness  he  read  a  deeper  meaning. 

"To  help  the  poor,  and  to  keep  my- 
self clean." 

He  gave  the  lines  a  sudden  jerk,  and, 
as  the  mare  came  to  a  halt,  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  coat  pocket,  where  he 
carried  a  small,  well-thumbed  Bible,  for 
the  churches  of  his  circuit  were  not  al- 
ways supplied  with  Bibles.  Slowly  he 
turned  the  leaves,  until  he  found  that 
which  he  sought,  then  read  slowly,  aloud, 
running  his  finger  along  the  lines,  while 
the  mare  with  considerable  forethought 
cropped  the  long  dry  grasses  along  the 
roadside. 


The  Valley  Path  233 

"  '  Pure  religion  and  undefiled  before  God 
and  the  Father  is  this  :  to  visit  the  father- 
less and  widows  in  their  affliction,  and  to 
keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world.' ' 

After  all,  the  old  doctor's  creed  was  not 
unlike  the  definition  given  by  the  apostle; 
and  that  he  lived  up  to  it  no  man  could 
deny. 

He  closed  the  book,  replaced  it  in  his 
bosom,  gathered  up  his  lines  and  rode  on. 
There  was  nothing  he  could  say  against 
a  creed  so  endorsed  ;  and,  after  all,  there 
might  be  that,  in  the  books  of  which  he 
knew  nothing,  which  would  give  new  light. 
But  he  was  resolved  to  "  cling  to  the  safe 
side."  The  books  might  confound  him. 
Too  much  learning  might  prove  as  dan- 
gerous as  too  little. 

"  I'd  rather  go  it  blind,"  he  declared, 
"go  by  faith,  and  keep  on  the  safe  side." 
There  entered  into  his  brain  no  thought 
of  a  spiritual  law  which  refuses  to  condone 
wilful  blindness. 

He  chose  to  hug  to  his  heart  the  old 


234  The  Valley  Path 

doubtful  comfort  of  "  God,  He  did  it." 
Chose  to  thus  frighten  ignorance,  and  lay 
the  lash  to  the  shoulders  of  weakness. 
Chose  to  believe  in  God's  wrath,  set- 
ting aside  Christ's  love.  Alas  !  that  man 
should  so  malign  his  Maker. 


Chapter  XII 

THE   day  following  Brother   Barry's 
departure,  the   doctor  left  his  ser- 
vants in   charge  and  went   back   to    the 
city. 

Winter  passed,  spring  and  summer 
drifted,  and  still  he  lingered.  At  last 
the  snow  came  again ;  silence  settled 
upon  the  valley,  and  brooded  upon  the 
finer  heights  of  the  more  distant  hills. 
With  the  first  fall  of  snow  he  returned ; 
fires  were  kindled,  the  blue  smoke  curled 
above  the  little  hut,  buried  under  its 
white  burden ;  lights  twinkled  in  the 
windows  again,  lighting  the  path  through 
the  valley  and  sending  a  good  glow  out 
upon  the  darkness  for  the  cheer  of  be- 
lated travellers.  For  three  days  Doctor 
Boring  remained  indoors,  seeing  no  one, 

235 


2j  6  The  Valley  Path 

adjusting  himself  anew  to  the  life  which 
had  been  temporarily  broken  into.  And 
then,  the  fourth  morning  after  his  return, 
Lissy  called. 

He  heard  her  voice  in  the  hall,  speak- 
ing first  to  Aunt  Dike  and  then  to  Zip. 

He  started,  and  turned  cold ;  he  had 
dreaded,  longed,  and  steeled  himself  for 
this  visit.  Yet  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
with  its  gentle,  music-like  cadences,  started 
all  his  nerves  a-jingling.  It  struck  him 
that  there  was  something  new  in  the  tones, 
something  he  had  not  heard  there  before; 
its  presence  cut  him  to  the  soul.  His 
trained  ear  had  detected  in  the  first  word 
she  spoke  the  note  of  sorrow,  keen,  incur- 
able, hopeless.  Those  who  have  suf- 
fered recognise  the  note  in  any  sphere 
or  circumstance. 

He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  day 
they  buried  Al.  He  had  kept  aloof 
purposely ;  he  could  bear  her  happiness, 
her  content  with  her  lover,  but  not  her 
grief;  he  would  undoubtedly  have  made 


The  Valley  Path  237 

her  sorrow  his.  He  had  conquered  him- 
self before  she  entered,  though  his  hand 
still  shook,  and  there  was  a  mist  before 
his  eyes  when  she  opened  the  door  and 
stood  before  him. 

At  the  sight  of  her  he  forgot  himself  as 
utterly  as  though  he  had  never  felt  a  pang 
because  of  her.  He  felt  nothing  but 
her  sorrow ;  saw  nothing  but  her  poor, 
pinched  little  face,  with  the  purple  shad- 
ows under  the  fathomless  eyes  that 
gazed  into  his  with  unspoken  pain. 

She  was  as  frail  as  one  of  the  lilies  that 
had  bloomed  in  his  yard  all  autumn ;  and 
like  the  lily,  she  had  been  chilled  by  the 
frost  that  fell  too  early  upon  the  shivering 
white  petals. 

He  would  scarcely  have  recognised  her 
but  for  the  golden  hair  knotted  about 
the  small,  dainty  head  still  crowned  with 
the  old  red  felt.  Her  very  voice  was 
changed ;  for  sorrow  makes  for  itself  an 
abiding-place  in  the  human  voice.  Other- 
wise she  was  the  same  gentle,  quiet  Alicia. 


238  The  Valley  Path 

"  Doctor  Bonn',"  she  said,  extending 
her  hand  to  meet  his,  "  I'm  mighty  glad 
you  have  come  back  home  again ;  I 
have  missed  you  mightily." 

There  was  a  quiver  in  the  voice,  in 
spite  of  the  powerful  effort  to  hold  it 
firm.  A  moisture  gathered  in  the  large, 
deep  eyes,  and  a  little  hacking  cough 
followed  her  attempt  at  welcome.  With- 
out a  word  he  took  her  arm  and  led  her 
to  the  fire,  and  stood  scanning  carefully 
the  delicate,  changed  features.  He  was 
the  physician  again,  and  she  the  patient; 
that  was  all. 

"  Why,  child,  what  have  you  done  to 
yourself?  Where  is  all  your  colour  and 
where  your  strength  ?  Why  didn't  you 
write  me  you  were  ill  ?  Didn't  you  know 
I  would  have  come  to  you,  Lissy  ?  that 
the  whole  world  couldn't  have  —  " 

He  remembered,  and  stopped  ;  but  the 
tone  of  his  voice  caught  her  ear.  She 
was  weak  and  overwrought  and  nervous. 
His  words  and  tone  quite  overcame  her 


The  Valley  Path  239 

poor  strength.  She  clasped  her  poor 
trembling  hands  and  burst  into  tears. 

Resisting  the  impulse  to  take  her  to 
his  heart,  he  drew  up  his  own  easy  chair, 
tucked  her  into  it,  and  said : 

"You  are  not  fit  to  be  out  in  weather 
like  this.  Now  you  are  to  sit  there  and 
thaw  out,  and  after  awhile  I  am  going  to 
give  you  a  tonic.  Now  then,  throw  off 
your  hat.  You  are  to  spend  the  day,  and 
knock  Zip  off  or  he  will  be  in  your  lap. 
And  now  tell  me  about  it.  How  long 
have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

He  drew  up  a  chair  and  seated  himself 
beside  her,  watching  with  the  physician's 
practised  eye  the  come  and  go  of  col- 
our in  the  delicate  cheeks,  the  play  of 
breath  in  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  chest, 
the  nervous  tears  ready  to  start  at  a 
word. 

"  I  haven't  been  sick,  Doctor  Borin'," 
she  said.  "  I  fetched  you  the  fresh  aigs 
I've  been  waiting  to  fetch  you,  to  pay  up 
my  debts  to  you.  Aunt  Dike  wouldn't 


240  The  Valley  Path 

take  any  while  you  ware  gone,  because 
she  said  you  didn't  tell  her,  an'  the  hens 
on  the  place  laid  enough  for  her  and 
Ephraim.  But  I  reckin  I  can  begin  again 
now;  I'd  like  to  pay  my  debt.  You 
ware  mighty  good  to  remember  me  that 
time,  —  an'  to  send  the  money.  I  don't 
know  what  I'd  'a'  done  but  for  you.  You 
air  mighty  good  anyhow,  mighty  good  to 
me." 

He  saw  that  she  was  unnerved,  ready 
to  break  down  ;  it  required  all  his  strength 
not  to  break  down  himself  and  pour  out 
the  burden  of  his  love.  Once  he  did  put 
out  his  hand  for  the  little  pale  one  lying 
upon  Zip's  shaggy  head  that  rested 
against  her  knee ;  but  he  remembered  in 
time  to  lay  his  ringers  upon  the  wrist 
instead,  where  the  pulse  was  throbbing 
nervously  in  the  small  blue  veins. 

"  I'd  like  to  do  somethin'  for  you-uns, 
Doctor  Borin',"  Alicia  went  on,  in  her 
low,  musical  voice.  "  I  useter  think  you 
ware  not  happy  over  here  by  yourse'f,  an' 


The  Valley  Path  241 

I  wish  I  could  do  somethin'  to  make 
you  more  happy  — " 

The  hand  upon  her  wrist  trembled. 
Did  she  know  what  she  was  saying  ?  Did 
she  mean  that  which  her  words  implied  ? 
If  so,  would  his  unspoken  promise  to  Joe 
hold  ?  Did  she  understand  the  situation, 
and  was  she  trying  to  help  him  out  of  his 
difficulty  ? 

"  I'd  like  to  wash  yo'  clothes  even,  or 
he'p  Aunt  Dike  when  I  get  better;  I  feel 
that  obligated  to  you." 

He  dropped  her  arm  and,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  said,  quietly : 

"We  will  talk  about  that  when  you  are 
strong  again.  Now,  Lissy,  will  you  an- 
swer my  question  ?  How  long  have  you 
been  ill?" 

"  I  haven't  been  sick,  Doctor  Borin' ;  I 
got  overhet  at  the  meetin'  last  spring, 
and  took  a  cold.  Seems  to  'a'  settled 
somewheres,  and  not  minded  to  let 

go-" 

"  Settled  hell !  —  "  he    exclaimed,  and 


242  The  Valley  Path 

then  stopped.  A  shadow,  deeper  than 
that  which  had  made  its  home  there,  came 
into  the  large  eyes.  She  lifted  her  hand 
to  check  the  wicked  exclamation  at  which, 
in  other  days,  she  had  been  wont  to  laugh 
so  merrily. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  she  said;  "you 
air  so  good,  it  air  a  pity  to  spoil  it  with 
such  words.  I  wish  you  wouldn't.  If 
not  for  your  own  sake,  then  just  to 
pleasure  me." 

Was  there  anything  he  would  not  have 
done  "  to  pleasure  "  her  ? 

"  I'll  quit,"  he  replied,  "to  please  you. 
But  I  was  about  to  say  something  warm. 
Instead  I  shall  give  you  something  warm 
for  that  cough.  Suppose  I  whip  up  an 
egg-nog  with  one  of  your  own  eggs  ;  then 
we  shall  see  if  you  are  putting  off  bad 
eggs  upon  your  old  customers;  see?" 

She  did  not  respond  to  his  joking ;  her 
face  wore  a  troubled  look. 

"  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't,"  she  said. 
"  It's  made  of  liquor,  egg-nog  air,  an' 


The  Valley  Path  243 

it's  wrong  to  drink  liquor.  I'd  rather 
cough  as  to  do  wrong." 

Her  conversion  had  been  complete, — 
its  completeness  baffled  him. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  replied,  "  here  is  a 
cough  mixture  that  I  keep  for  just  such 
obstinate  cases  as  yours ;  we  will  try 
this." 

He  poured  some  of  the  dark  liquid 
into  a  tumbler  and  watched  her  drink 
it,  wondering  the  while  at  the  change 
her  new  religion  had  wrought.  On  a 
former  visit  she  had  drunk  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  had  carried  that  which  re- 
mained in  the  bottle  to  Al,  declaring  it 
would  "  do  him  a  sight  of  good  if  he 
enjoyed  the  taste  of  it  as  well  as  she  did." 
How  she  had  changed,  her  very  voice 
and  speech ;  she  had  adopted  the  slow, 
drawling  dialect  of  her  grandparents,  as 
though  in  adopting  their  creeds  she  must 
shoulder  their  ignorance  and  lack  of 
culture  also. 

The    tonic    revived    her ;    he   saw   the 


244  The  Valley  Path 

glow  spring  to  eye  and  cheek,  and  he 
felt  better  for  its  presence,  though  he 
recognised  it  as  only  a  delusion,  a  false 
reflection  of  health,  produced  by  the 
stimulating  medicine. 

She  folded  her  hands  upon  her  lap  and 
watched  him  shyly  from  under  her  long, 
dark  lashes ;  but  it  was  many  minutes 
before  she  could  bring  herself  to  the 
point  of  giving  him  her  entire  confidence. 
After  awhile  her  fingers  began  to  work 
nervously,  pulling  at  the  fringe  of  her 
gay  plaid  shawl.  He  felt  that  she  was 
bracing  herself  for  an  ordeal. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  you,"  she  said,  at 
last,  "  about  —  about  somethin'." 

"  Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?  "  he  said, 
with  an  effort  at  careless  humour. 

"  Doctor  Borin',"  she  began,  in  her 
quaint  drawl,  "  they  calls  you-uns  an 
infidel." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  is  no 
news,  Lissy.  I  have  heard  that  often ; 
ever  since  I  came  to  the  valley,  and  for 


The  Valley  Path  245 

more  than  twenty  years  before,"  he  added. 
"  They  are  welcome  to  call  me  what  they 
choose ;  it  is  not  what  others  think  us, 
but  that  which  we  know  ourselves  to 
be,  should  trouble  or  please  us  in  this 
life." 

"  But,"  said  Alicia,  ignoring  the  inter- 
ruption, "  they  allow  that  you  know  right 
smart,  too.  Gran'father  says  he'd  about 
as  lief  take  your  say-so  as  to  take  Brother 
Barry's.  He  says  Brother  Barry  ware 
never  fifty  mile  from  Pelham  in  all  his 
born  days,  an'  don't  know  if  the  word 
be  preached  in  Tennessee  like  it  be  in 
Georgy,  not  to  save  his  life.  He  says 
one  man  has  as  much  right  to  his  say 
as  another  man,  an'  to  his  belief,  too. 
But  granny,  she  says  hell's  a-bilin'  with 
unbelievers  like  you-uns,  though  even 
she  admits  you  are  entitled  to  a  hearin' 
at  the  last  day,  if  the  infidel  gets  his 
entitlements." 

"  Oh,  I'll  get  mine,  Lissy,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Don't  you  fret  about  that.  I 


246  The  Valley  Path 

will  get  a  hearing,  if  God  is  good.  You 
believe  He  is  good,  do  you  not,  Lissy  ?  " 

The  slender  hands  were  clasped  with 
sudden  rhapsody,  a  light  leaped  to  the 
quiet,  fathomless  eyes,  there  was  rapture 
in  the  face,  —  the  rapture,  the  light,  and 
the  excitement  of  the  fanatic.  The  phy- 
sician saw  it  and  understood;  his  heart 
dropped  like  lead  in  his  bosom.  Too 
late,  too  late;  the  deed  had  been  done. 
He  felt  as  he  had  sometimes  felt  when 
summoned  to  attend  a  wounded  man,  and, 
arriving  too  late,  had  found  the  man  dead. 
The  heart  had  ceased  beating,  a  little  piece 
of  anatomical  mechanism  had  stopped,  that 
was  all.  Yet  it  meant  that  somebody  had 
committed  a  murder. 

"Oh,  He  air,"  said  Alicia,  softly,  and 
with  strange  fervour,  "He  air  good !  God 
air  good!  I  give  my  testimony  to  hit. 
He  air  good  —  good;  Doctor  Borin',  I 
have  found  peace  since  I  ware  here  afore- 
times." 

His    heart   beat   so    fiercely    he   could 


The  Valley  Path  247 

scarcely  trust  himself  to  speak,  to  talk 
to  her,  his  poor  broken  flower.  They 
had  played  upon  her  heart  in  its  desola- 
tion; taken  advantage  of  her  sorrow,  her 
ignorance,  her  loneliness,  and  her  need  of 
sympathy.  He  understood  all  in  an  in- 
stant, and  wondered  where  Joe  could  have 
been,  and  what  doing,  that  he  had  failed  to 
fit  himself  to  the  emptiness  left  by  the  be- 
loved brother.  Peace,  indeed !  He  leaned 
forward,  took  the  slender,  tear-wet  hands 
in  his  own,  folded  them  gently  between 
his  strong,  warm  palms.  Thus  would 
he  have  folded  her  life  in  his,  warmed  and 
caressed  the  quivering,  wounded  heart. 
But  such  was  not  reserved  for  him;  he 
might  minister  as  the  physician,  the  friend, 
the  old  man  versed  in  the  knowledge  of 
books, — no  more. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "you  have  found 
peace,  you  tell  me;  yet  your  face,  your 
restlessness,  your  very  voice,  all  tell  me 
you  have  not  found  peace;  that  you  are 
far  from  it.  What  is  it,  Alicia?  What  is 


248  The  Valley  Path 

the  trouble  ?  Peace  that  comes  of  God 
is  His  blessed  gift,  and  'He  addeth  no  sor- 
row thereto.'  Tell  me  what  troubles  you, 
my  child,  and  let  me  help  you,  just  as 
your  father  would.  I  am  an  old  man, 
but  not  insensible  to  human  pain.  Some 
hearts  refuse  age  in  spite  of  tottering  old 
bodies  and  heads  that  catch  the  snowfall. 
Mine  is  young  enough  to  take  your  grief 
and  help  you  to  a  way  out  of  it,  may- 
be; but  if  it  be  one  of  those  burdens 
—  they  fall  sometimes  —  which  must  be 
borne,  I  am  ready  to  help  you  lift  it,  bear 
it — "  Share  it,  he  was  about  to  say. 
His  heart  yearned  to  take  her  into  its 
protecting  warmth,  to  bless  her  poor  life 
with  the  fullness  of  his  love. 

The  gentle  tone  and  touch  brought  the 
tears  against  which  she  had  been  strug- 
gling. 

"I  want  to  do  right.  But  it's  hard, 
hard,  hard.  I  want  to  ask  you,  Doctor 
Borin',  is  it  wrong  to  marry  a  man  who 
ain't  a  believer  ?  Is  it  a  sin  to  ?  " 


The  Valley  Path  249 

Poor  little  ignorant!  the  great  trouble 
had  been  laid  bare  at  last. 

"It's  Joe,"  she  continued.  "You  said 
I  ought  —  to  marry  Joe.  You  told  me 
so,  and  I  meant  to,  because  you  said  it 
was  only  fair  to  him.  But  since  then 
I've  got  religion.  Joe's  a  sinner;  I  don't 
know  as  I  could  make  him  happy ;  an' 
I  didn't  want  to  marry  —  only  you  said 
'twas  right.  But  Brother  Barry  he  allows 
God  will  lay  it  up  against  me  if  I  marry 
Joe;  ( punish  me,'  he  called  it.  Like  He 
punished  me  befo'  when  He  took  little  Al. 
He  says  that's  what  made  Al  die.  God 
was  angry  with  me  fur  bein*  a  sinner;  an' 
He  couldn't  fetch  me  to  a  sense  o'  sin  no 
other  way,  an'  so  He  took  my  brother. 
My  poor  little  brother  Al !  Seems  to 
me  He  might  'a'  got  me  some  other 
way,  an'  not  have  took  my  brother.  But 
Brother  Barry  says  God's  ways  is  past 
findin'  out,  an'  I  reckin  they  air.  But 
I  can't  see  my  way  clear  to  do  anything; 
'pears  to  me  I'm  left  alone,  now  Al's 


250  The  Valley  Path 

gone ;  an'  Joe's  always  been  good  to  me, 
an'  I  ain't  got  anybody  else,  Doctor  Borin', 
nobody;  an'  I  have  asked  for  light,  for 
help;  an'  it  has  —  not  —  come." 

What  could  he  say  ?  what  do  ?  To 
him  the  thing  that  was  so  simple,  so  easy 
to  adjust  and  to  set  right,  was  to  her 
a  tragedy. 

To  tell  her  she  was  a  child,  an  inno- 
cent, and  that  Brother  Barry  was  a  fool 
or  a  fanatic,  would  have  been  a  use- 
less waste  of  words.  Six  months  earlier, 
Alicia,  the  "sinner,"  would  have  laughed 
at  the  prophecy  of  the  preacher,  and  made 
merry  over  his  threats.  But  Alicia,  the 
convert,  her  heart  sore  with  the  desola- 
tion of  death,  was  ready  to  hug  to  itself 
any  promise  of  consolation,  and  to  flee  any 
threat  of  a  second  visitation  of  sorrow. 

He  felt  as  helpless  as  she.  For  the 
cancerous  teachings  of  ignorance  there  is 
no  healing  save  in  knowledge ;  and  the 
mind  diseased,  unlike  the  body,  will  not 
bear  the  knife  at  the  root  of  the  woe ;  it 


The  Valley  Path  251 

requires  gentle  handling,  time,  and  the 
tender  tricks  of  art  to  woo  it  back  to 
health.  Hers  was  a  present  need ;  she 
being  one  of  those  all-soul  creations, 
whose  fires,  once  lighted,  will  turn  upon 
and  consume  itself  in  its  own  flame.  He 
forbore  severe  treatment.  To  her,  al- 
though she  still  respected  his  great  knowl- 
edge and  admired  his  undeniable  goodness, 
he  was  still  an  infidel,  a  non-partaker  in 
the  feast  of  the  saints.  His  heart  was  as 
sore  as  hers ;  still  he  must  say  something, 
since  she  had  come  to  him  for  help. 

"  Alicia,"  he  began,  "  Brother  Barry  has 
presented  to  you  but  one  view  of  the 
great  God;  there  is  another,  child  — " 

She  silenced  him  with  her  hand.  "  Oh, 
I  have  been  a  sinner,  I  have  been  a  sin- 
ner, Doctor  Borin';  God  might  burn  me 
in  the  lake  of  fire  and  still  be  too  good 
to  me.  I  know  it,  I  know  it." 

He  sighed,  discouraged  at  the  outset. 
But  there  was  another  string  upon  which 
he  might  sound  for  a  response. 


252  The  Valley  Path 

"Alicia,"  he  said,  "you  are  considering 
only  yourself  in  this  matter.  Listen  to 
me.  When  God  puts  into  the  heart  of 
an  honest,  earnest  man,  as  you  believe 
God  does,  a  love  for  an  earnest,  tender 
woman,  He  puts  the  feeling  there  to  bless 
and  enrich  both  his  life  and  hers.  Such 
love  may  not  be  lightly  set  aside.  There 
are  consequences,  fearful  and  destructive, 
which  sometimes  do  and  always  may  at- 
tend cruelty  to  one  who  loves  us.  I 
know  whereof  I  speak." 

She  was  silent,  knowing  that  he  referred 
to  his  own  unhappy  experience.  After 
a  moment  he  continued :  "  You  have  no 
right  to  spoil  Joe's  happiness  for  a  whim. 
No  true  woman  will  grieve  the  heart  that 
loves  her." 

Still  she  made  no  reply ;  she  was  afraid 
of  him,  afraid  to  trust  him,  afraid  to  trust 
herself.  Above  all,  she  was  afraid  of  her 
religion ;  it  had  become  her  tyrant ;  she 
was  ready  to  sacrifice  whatever  it  might 
demand ;  not  only  her  love,  but  her  life 
as  well. 


The  Valley  Path  253 

"Alicia,"  he  said,  studying  carefully  the 
varying  shadows  of  her  face,  "  is  this  your 
only  reason  for  refusing  Joe  ?  " 

She  started,  flushed,  and,  without  re- 
plying, rose  to  go.  He  also  rose,  and, 
scarcely  knowing  that  he  did  so,  put 
himself  between  the  door  and  her. 

"  You  must  answer  my  question  ;  tell 
me,  before  I  let  you  go,  if  religious  mo- 
tives alone  influence  you  in  your  refusal 
to  become  the  wife  of  Joe  Bowen." 

There  was  a  flash  of  the  gray  eyes,  a 
curl  of  the  thin,  bloodless  lip.  She  lifted 
her  hand,  as  of  one  about  to  take  an  oath. 
Instead,  however,  she  waved  him  out  of 
her  path. 

"  Stand  out  of  my  way,"  she  com- 
manded. "  I  am  obligated  to  no  man  so 
much  that  I  must  take  oath  to  every  fool- 
ish thought  I  ever  had,  as  I  can  see" 

He  laughed  and  moved  aside  to  let  her 
pass.  Her  simple  effort  at  parrying,  her 
refusal  to  deny  the  suggestion  carried  in 
his  questioning,  her  excitement  that  was 


254  The  Valley  Path 

embarrassment  more  than  anger,  —  all 
these  spoke  more  than  her  simple  admis- 
sion could  have  spoken,  and  he  was 
content. 

It  is  enough  sometimes  to  know  one- 
self beloved,  without  the  additional  joy  of 
possession. 

He  stood  a  moment  at  the  little  gate 
through  which  she  had  passed,  to  watch 
her  climbing  the  brown  path,  winding 
in  and  out  the  denuded,  snow-rimmed 
mountain  growth.  Her  dress  of  blue 
homespun,  the  large-plaided,  many-hued 
shawl,  the  bright  head  wearing  its  crown 
of  gay  felt,  —  all  these  combined  to  make 
a  rare  dash  of  colour  against  the  dead 
whiteness  of  the  landscape. 

Three  times  she  paused  to  rest,  while 
only  the  preceding  summer  she  had  come 
down  that  same  path  with  the  light  step 
of  a  mountain  doe,  and  cheeks  to  shame 
the  roses  that  had  bloomed  beside  her 
door.  Alas,  the  roses  were  all  dead,  alike 
in  garden  and  young  life. 


The  Valley  Path  255 

"  And  all  so  unnecessary,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, still  watching  the  bright  confusion  of 
colour  disappearing  among  the  grayness 
of  the  heights.  She  would  not  climb  be- 
yond the  clouds,  poor  Alicia ;  she  would 
only  pass  into  the  gloom  of  the  confusing 
mists.  He  sighed,  and  turned  back  to 
his  cabin.  "  She  will  be  dead  before 
another  winter.  I  might  have  saved  her 
once,  and  both  of  us  been  happy.  But 
not  now,  not  now.  Fanaticism  is  stronger 
than  affection ;  hers,  with  Al's  death  to 
help  along,  will  soon  end  it  all  for  her, — 
my  poor  Alicia." 

It  came  sooner  than  he  expected.  All 
spring  he  watched  her  fade.  The  roses 
came  again  to  the  bush  by  the  cabin  door, 
but  not  to  the  cheek  of  the  fading  girl. 
She  came  and  went  as  usual,  still  brought 
her  offering  of  fresh  eggs  and  butter, 
though  now  she  left  them  with  old  Dike 
in  the  kitchen.  Her  chats  with  the  doc- 
tor were  limited  to  short  resting  spells  at 
the  gate,  where  he  sometimes  hailed  her 


256  The  Valley  Path 

on  her  trips  to  and  from  Sewanee.  These 
meetings  were  as  much  a  torture  to  him 
as  they  were  to  her;  she  was  not  in  his 
life  now,  nor  of  it ;  his  own  hand  had  put 
her  from  him.  If  he  could  have  heard 
from  her  own  lips,  just  once  before  she 
went  from  him,  a  tender  word,  could  have 
had  one  assurance  that  the  pure  young 
heart  was  his,  he  could  have  felt  that  to 
lay  her  in  her  grave  was  sweeter  than 
to  yield  her  to  another.  But,  try  as  he 
might,  he  could  never  surprise  her  into  a 
betrayal  of  affection,  if  indeed  she  har- 
boured any  for  him.  Only  once  —  it  was 
the  last  visit  she  made  to  him  —  he  had 
thought  to  probe  her  heart  by  an  unex- 
pected reference  to  Joe.  She  had  almost 
fallen  into  the  snare  he  had  set. 

"You  owe  it  to  him,"  he  declared,  "to 
marry  him.  He  is  going  to  the  dogs.  I 
saw  him  drunk  last  week." 

She  recoiled  and  cried  out  so  sharply 
he  winced  for  the  hurt  he  had  dealt  her. 

"  I  can't,"  she  sobbed.     "  Oh,  I  can't ; 


The  Valley  Path  257 

I  want  to  do  what  seems  to  me  right  to 
do,  but  I  can't  —  marry  —  nobody." 

One  June  morning,  when  the  winds 
sang  low  in  the  forest,  they  sent  for  him. 
The  miller  met  him  at  the  gate  and  bade 
him  go  in. 

"  She'll  soon  be  at  rest,  poor  Lissy," 
he  said,  "an'  free  o'  all  tormentin'.  She 
ware  a  likely  gal,  an'  a  happy  one, 
befo'  trouble  tuk  holt  of  her.  Trouble 
come  to  her,  an'  they  were  not  satisfied, 
but  they  must  pile  worry  'pon  top  of 
hit  till  she  sunk  under  it.  Go  in,  Doc- 
tor Borin',  an'  help  my  little  gal  ter 
die." 

Granny  stood  in  the  doorway,  awed  and 
tearless,  a  strange  subdued  sorrow  in  her 
face.  She  moved  aside  to  let  him  pass, 
pointing  with  her  long  finger  to  the  little 
room  where  the  honeysuckle  peeped  in 
at  the  window  and  the  June  winds  stole 
through  the  curtains  of  simple  muslin  to 
fan  the  brow  of  the  sick  girl.  Granny 
had  long  ago  recognised  the  fact  that 


258  The  Valley  Path 

Lissy  had  passed  beyond  the  skill  of 
either  infidel  or  herb. 

Alicia  was  awake,  restless  and  tossing, 
a  wild  light  in  her  eyes  and  a  strange 
strength  in  the  worn  body. 

The  physician  stepped  to  the  bedside 
and  spoke  her  name  softly:  "Alicia?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  lifted 
herself  in  bed  and  cried  out  to  him, 
sharply : 

"  Doctor  Borin',  oh,  Doctor  Borin', 
don't  let  me  die."  She  caught  his  coat 
front  and  held  it  as  he  bent  over  her, 
seeking  to  soothe  and  reassure  her,  al- 
though his  heart  was  breaking  with  her 
piteous  pleadings  for  life. 

"  I'm  afeard,  oh,  I'm  afeard  to  die. 
I'm  afeard  the  devil  will  get  me.  Do 
you  reckin  the  devil  will  get  me,  Doctor 
Borin'?  I've  been  a-thinkin'  about  what 
you  said,  an'  I'm  afeard  I  done  wrong 
after  all,  treatin'  of  Joe  so  bad.  But  I 
meant  it  fur  right.  Oh,  I  did  try  to  do 
right;  I  did,  I  did,  I  did." 


The  Valley  Path  259 

It  was  too  cruel,  after  all  her  struggle 
and  sacrifice,  to  be  so  harassed  at  the  last ! 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  bedside  and 
folded  the  wasted,  trembling  hands  in  his. 

"  Oh,  you  poor  child,"  he  said.  "  Have 
you  been  worrying  over  my  foolish  scold- 
ing ?  You  did  right,  of  course,  perfectly 
right ;  and  you're  not  to  give  the  matter 
another  thought.  I  will  tell  Joe  that  you 
thought  of  him  and  were  sorry  that  you 
hurt  him,  if  you  wish  me  to  do  so ;  and 
he  will  forgive  you,  Alicia ;  I  am  sure 
of  it." 

"  Oh,  I  wish't  you  would,"  she  sobbed. 
"Tell  him  I'm  sorry  I  had  —  to  hurt 
him.  Air  you  sure  he  won't  be  mad 

3  " 

at  me  r 

"  Perfectly  sure,  Alicia.  May  I  take 
him  your  love  ?  Must  I  tell  him  that 
you  knew  that  you  loved  him  —  at  the 
last?  " 

He  bent  his  face  to  hers ;  he  saw  the 
old  hurt,  haunted  expression  return  to 
her  eyes.  But  she  smiled,  even  in  the 


260  The  Valley  Path 

face  of  death ;  the  principle  that  had 
sealed  her  lips  against  the  comforting  lie 
spoke  a  comforting,  a  blessed  truth  to 
him. 

"  You  do  not  love  him,  Alicia  ?  Is 
that  it  ?  You  love  another  ?  One  who 
held  you  in  heart  from  the  first  moment 
he  saw  you,  dear  ?  You  loved  him  a 
little  in  return,  for  all  he  was  so  old,  so 
much  too  old  for  you,  my  poor  dar- 
ling?" 

She  nestled  closer  to  him ;  her  fingers 
closed  upon  his  with  convulsive  strength. 

"  Don't  tell  him,"  she  begged.  "  Don't 
ever  let  Joe  know;  it  wouldn't  do  any 
good  —  now." 

"It  is  enough  that  I  know,  dear,"  he 
said,  with  broken  voice.  "  I  shall  take 
him  your  love,  your  dear  love,  the  same 
you  might  have  sent  to  Al.  May  I  ?  " 

She  nodded,  and  was  silent.  The 
shadowy  eyes  held  many  a  doubt  in  their 
startled  depths. 

"  Rest    easy    now,"    said    the    doctor, 


The  Valley  Path  261 

"  and  be  happy.  You  have  been  a  good 
girl,  and  have  tried  to  do  your  duty." 

He  stooped  and  touched  her  forehead 
with  his  lips  lightly,  as  one  caresses  a 
rose,  afraid  of  bruising  the  tender  petals. 
He  pushed  the  golden  strands  of  hair  back 
from  the  brow  that  death  had  kissed,  and 
saw  her  smile,  as  though  the  unutterable 
sweetness  of  the  caress  were  the  one  touch 
of  earth,  being  so  like  divine,  she  would 
carry  with  her  to  make  paradise  more 
perfect. 

Only  a  moment,  one  poor  little  mo- 
ment of  bliss,  and  the  old  horror,  the 
fear  of  that  which  might  await  her  when 
she  should  pass  into  the  far  mysterious, 
returned  to  torture  her. 

"  Don't  let  me  die."  The  poor  plain- 
tive pleading  hurt  his  very  soul  to  hear. 

"  I'm  afeard  to  go  down  into  the 
pit,  Doctor  Borin'!  I'm  afeard  of — 
God." 

"Afraid  of  the  good  God,  dear? 
Think  of  Him,  Alicia.  He  alone  can 


262  The  Valley  Path 

help  you  now.  Remember  only  that  He 
is  the  good  God;  good,  good." 

"  An'  the  devil  won't  get  me  ?  Oh, 
I'm  afeard  of  the  devil,  an'  the  fire  that 
burns,  an'  never  stops  burnin'.  Don't 
let  me  die  an'  go  to  the  devil,  Doctor 
Borin'!" 

She  was  weeping  wildly  ;  her  terror  was 
pitiful.  He  knelt  by  the  bed  and  took 
the  fragile,  wasted  form  in  his  arms,  hold- 
ing her  closely,  so  that  she  lay  upon  his 
bosom  like  a  frightened  bird  with  broken 
wings  fluttering  helplessly.  Granny  came 
in  and  stood  over  the  foot  of  the  couch ; 
grandad  had  gone  to  fetch  a  neighbour ; 
old  Dike  had  come  over  to  offer  the  as- 
sistance which  she  had  learned  was  neces- 
sary at  such  times.  The  doctor  neither 
saw  nor  heard  anything  but  the  dying  girl 
in  his  arms.  She  was  his  for  the  mo- 
ment ;  to  him  it  had  been  granted  to 
soothe  the  last  moment  of  the  life  that 
had  been  so  dear  to  him.  He  threw  aside 
all  disguise :  he  would  speak  the  truth  as 


The  Valley  Path  263 

he  believed  it,  let  the  result  be  what  it 
might. 

"  Lissy,"  he  said,  his  face  near  her  own, 
"listen  to  me,  dear  child.  There  is  no 
devil.  There  is  no  devil  and  no  lake  of 
fire.  Can  you  hear  me,  Lissy  ?  And  do 
you  understand?" 

Into  the  frightened  eyes  crept  an  ex- 
pression of  wonder  that  mellowed  into 
perfect  joy. 

"  Air  you  sure  ?  "  she  whispered.  "  Sure 
he  can't  get  me?  " 

"  As  I  am  that  you  are  going  straight 
to  God,  dear.  Don't  you  be  afraid ; 
don't  think  of  death  at  all ;  just  remem- 
ber the  good  God.  You  know  Him, 
Lissy  ? " 

She  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh.  "  Oh,  yes, 
I  know  Him.  I'm  so  glad,  so  glad  there 
ain't  any  devil.  I  was  so  afeard  of  him, 
and  now  there  ain't  any,  there  ain't  any." 

She  nestled  her  head  against  his  bosom ; 
the  heavy  lids  dropped  wearily.  Granny 
put  her  apron  to  her  face  and  went  out  to 


264  The  Valley  Path 

nurse  her  grief  alone.  Old  Dike  began 
to  move  the  medicine  bottles  from  the 
little  candle-stand  at  the  bed's  side.  She 
knew  they  would  be  needed  no  more. 

But  Doctor  Boring  neither  stirred  nor 
spoke,  nor  moved  his  eyes  from  the  beau- 
tiful face  upon  his  bosom.  He  was  wait- 
ing for  the  last  recognition,  which  he  felt 
sure  would  not  be  denied  him.  There 
was  a  moment  of  intense  silence  before 
Alicia  lifted  her  hand  and  placed  it  upon 
his  bosom.  He  moved  it  gently  to  his 
neck,  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  shadow- 
less  now,  and  smiled.  With  the  smile 
came  a  sigh,  a  breath  of  inexpressible  con- 
tent. The  smile,  the  sigh,  spoke  to  him, 
a  wordless  message,  but  he  understood 
and  was  content.  He  put  her  back  upon 
the  pillow,  wordless  and  without  tears, 
and  passed  out  where  death  had  entered. 
His  hand,  as  he  passed,  brushed  a  large 
full-hearted  rose  that  bloomed  upon  the 
bush  beside  the  door ;  the  crimson  petals 
fell  apart  and  lay  about  his  feet.  It  was 


The  Valley  Path  265 

well  the  rose  should  fade, — he  wondered 
if  it  might  not  know  that  she  was  dead. 
The  little  tragedy  in  hearts  was  played. 
Henceforth  life  would  wear  its  gray ;  re- 
turn to  its  old  silence.  Into  the  heart's 
Holy  of  Holies  only  memory,  the  high 
priest,  might  enter. 

The  days  multiplied  to  weeks,  the 
weeks  and  months  drifted  drowsily  into 
years,  and  autumn,  purple  with  haze,  and 
steeped  with  the  odour  of  fading  vegeta- 
tion, was  come  again.  The  Indian  pipes 
were  in  bloom,  and  where  the  goldenrod 
had  died,  bunches  of  gray  stubble  waved 
in  the  October  wind. 

In  the  doctor's  cabin  the  fires  had 
been  lighted,  for  the  nights  were  cool. 
He  still  went  about  among  his  sick,  doing 
a  quiet  good.  The  guest-chamber  shel- 
tered but  few  now,  since  Brother  Barry 
had  been  sent  upon  a  different  circuit. 
Sometimes  Joe  Bowen  would  lodge  there, 
but  not  often ;  he  had  become  restless 


266  The  Valley  Path 

after  Alicia's  death,  and  was  fond  of  roam- 
ing the  woods  alone  of  nights,  although 
he  often  came  over  to  sit  afternoons  in 
the  sunshine  and  talk  with  the  doctor  of 
Alicia.  So  changed,  so  softened,  so 
gently  patient  was  he,  that  Doctor  Boring 
sometimes  found  it  difficult  to  trace  in  the 
quiet,  steady  farmer  the  old  fiery-tempered 
Joe  who  had  once  commanded  him  to 
come  out  and  fight  for  the  girl  they  both 
loved. 

Only  in  one  respect  was  he  unchanged, 

—  he    was    still    proof    against    Brother 
Barry. 

"  I  ain't  got  no  religion,  Doctor  Borin'," 
he  was  wont  to  declare,  "no  more  than  I 
had  when  Lissy  Reams  useter  name  me 
for  a  sinner.  An'  I  don't  know  no  more 
than  I  did  then.  But,  Doctor  Borin'," 

—  and  his  voice  would  fall  to  a  low,  not 
unmusical  cadence, — "when  they  talk  of 
Christ    I    seem    to    see    Him    wanderin' 
through  the  mount'n,lonesomin'  an*  weary, 
huntin'  for  the  strays  amongst  His  sheep. 


The  Valley  Path  267 

An',  oh!  I  feels  for  Him,  I  feels  for  Him. 
I  know  what  'tis  to  be  a  lonesome  wan- 
derer in  the  mount'ns.  I  know  what  'tis 
to  feel  the  rocks  and  thorns  that  cut  an' 
prick.  I  know  what  'tis  to  be  forgot  of 
all,  except,  maybe,  of  Him,  who  lived 
alone  and  lonesome,  too;  though  I  ain't 
unmindful  of  the  word  she  sent  ter  me, 
her  love  an'  her  good-by.  I  remembers 
them,  and  they  air  sweet  to  me.  But 
they  air  not  that  which  comforts  me;  its 
Him,  Him  who  suffered,  too ;  an'  so  I  say 
I  feels  for  Him,  Christ  or  elder  brother, 
Son  of  God  or  son  of  man,  which  you 
will.  He's  nigh  to  me;  His  presence 
holps  me.  Somehows  I  don't  look  to 
reach  the  heights,  where  the  skies  air  fair 
an'  the  eagles  swim.  But  I'm  content  ter 
walk  the  valley  path  so  long  as  He  walks 
with  me." 

And  with  a  sigh,  half  sad  and  half  re- 
signed, he  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  purpling 
hills  where  Alicia  sleeps  underneath  the 
soughing  hemlocks;  where  in  summer  the 


268  The  Valley  Path 

cows  couch  under  the  shadow  of  the  cliffs, 
hard  by  Sewanee,  and  in  winter  the  wind, 
like  a  spent  runner,  moans  among  the 
trees,  lamenting,  mayhap,  those  baffling 
mysteries,  which  to  her  have  been  at  last 
made  plain. 


THE  END. 


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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


oe  1991 


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